


Landfall

by Kendrene



Series: Rites of Passage [2]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst, Blood and Gore, Canon Divergent, Explicit Language, F/F, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Major Character Injury, Sickness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-13
Updated: 2016-04-20
Packaged: 2018-05-26 12:06:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 28,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6237949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kendrene/pseuds/Kendrene
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What would have happened if Clarke turned 18 while in confinement and the project to send the 100 to the ground was not yet reality? Will Abby sit by as her daughter gets floated for the secrets she carries? Or will she try to save her? And will Clarke survive her mother's plan?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Impact/ Suicide by Earth/ Solitary Confinement

**Author's Note:**

> A thank you in particular to Redditkru, who asked about alternate fates for Clarke and prompted me to find the answer.
> 
> Also- I miss Anya and Lexa so I am bringing them back. Kudos and comments are greatly appreciated. Please keep in mind English isn't my first language, so if you see ways for me to improve, don't hesitate to tell me!

 

 

“ _The function of man is to live, not to exist._  
I shall not waste my days trying to prolong them.  
I shall use my time"

\- Jack London

 

It seems her whole world is shaking and, as far as she is concerned, the cramped confines of the drop-pod might as well be the beginning and end of her reality. The interior is scarcely lit by a row of twinkling lights, the significance of which is lost to her and the few details that emerge from the gloom are anything but reassuring. The metal structure is bare and scratched, the paint that coated it long gone in places. There is a general air of neglect and disrepair, as if nobody truly expected to make any use of the pod. She feels like her whole self is contained within a remnant of another, more hopeful time.

Clarke blinks several times, as the lights split and multiply in front of her eyes. Her vision swims and tilts, first one way, then the other and her breath comes in ragged, shallow gasps that fog the helmet’s visor. She shakes her head, trying to throw off the dizziness, but makes it worse and everything gains a ghostly afterimage, as if her eyes were the damaged lenses of a camera unable to focus.

The pod's tremors increase and the metal creaks and moans like a wounded beast, as if the whole thing is ready to burst at the seams. Loose cabling fizzles and sparks alight the air around her. She feels an enormous pressure, build behind her back and the small space is filled by the high-pitched whine of spooling engines. The noise builds, closing around her like a wall, pressing down on her and then there is a sudden sense of release as she is slammed forward against the restraints that keep her on her seat.

The belts and straps dig into the suit that encases her until it feels she is wearing nothing at all, then press further and she imagines they will slice her open.

She blinks back tears as she is compressed into the worn padding of the chair, her ribs crushed between its back and the air that congeals into a giant hand around her, squeezing and folding so that her lungs cannot fill fully and black creeps into her vision. She thinks she will suffocate and opens her mouth as wide as it will go, trying to gulp down some air, her throat seizing, the burning in her chest spreading to the rest of her and making her limbs heavy and leaden.

Her vision is reduced to a fast-narrowing tunnel, the colors turn to flat shades of gray and the flashing indicators on the panels mockingly blink on. She cannot hear herself breathe, only the thunder of her own heart, the rushing of blood filling her ears. She squeezes her eyes shut, unable to stare at her own end.

“Clarke,” her eyes snap open as the helmet’s comm system crackles to life. “Clarke, breathe.” She wants to tell the voice that she cannot, but her mouth is starved for air and dry and cannot form the words that climb up her throat.

“…end…soon…” the voice is laced with static, the mechanical din almost drowns it out and in her state Clarke is not sure she isn’t imagining it all. She thinks maybe she is already dead and these are the last deluded sparks of her brain shutting down.

Her heart hammers against her sternum then suddenly the weight lifts off her and air rushes into her mouth and she coughs and spits and in her haste to suck in more of it, bites her tongue. Warmth floods her mouth and the metallic tang of blood fills her nostrils. She has only a brief respite before the pressure returns, slamming into her full force and throwing her back so hard, her head snaps against the seat and only the helmet she is wearing saves her from slicing her scalp open, or worse, cracking her skull.

“Reached....external...layers,” Clarke hears other voices in the background, but the connection is now possibly even worse and all she can do is cling to consciousness with desperation. This must be a nightmare, an hallucination. She tries to tell herself to wake, but it doesn't work, unlike those times when she was a child and dreamed of monsters under her bed. She would always manage to throw off her nightly terrors and always when her eyes opened her father Jake would be at her side, ready to turn the lights on or scoop her in his arms.

Her father is long gone though and the only reassurance he can offer her now is the familiar weight of his watch around her wrist. A hissing sound, like sand scraping on metal grows around her, intermingled with loud hard bangs that threaten to rip the hull to shreds. Tiny beads of condensation weep down her visor's surface and she realizes she feels hot, much hotter than before. Her whole body is clammy with sweat.

“... _NOT FULLY DEPLOYED._...” In one last surge the radio shrieks, hurts her hearing, before devolving down to complete static, then silence. Too late Clarke thinks she has many questions and no chance to ask any of them.

The pod tilts forward then rotates suddenly and blood floods her brain, drumming at her temples as Clarke finds herself upside down. One of the seat belts unfastens with a loud pop and her hand reflexively shoots out, clawing for something, anything she can hold on to. Her fingers brush against a metal strut and she hisses in pain as its heat sears her skin, even through the thick gloves she is wearing.

 Before she can reach out again, she is slammed to the side, the rest of her restraints tearing away and she meets the metal wall headfirst. Flashes of white pain stain her vision, then the world turns to black as the drop-pod comes to a screeching halt on the ground.

 

* * *

  
Raven slowly takes off the headset and lets it drop with a clatter among the discarded parts on the workbench. She cannot tear her eyes away from the blinking dot on the monitor that signals the escape pod's last known position. Abby takes a shaking breath and Raven looks up as the woman slowly raises a trembling hand and places it on the screen, a soft, careful touch as if she could cover the distance and feel her daughter's cheek against her fingers one last time.

“May we meet again,” the words are barely audible and Raven can see tears well up in her eyes.

“Abby, I...”

Clarke's mother gives the tiniest shake of her head and the words of condolence Raven feels she has to say, die on her tongue. She imagines it is best anyway. What she was going to say, sounds empty even as she rehearses it in her head, words said a million time to a million people which always fail to mend.

“You should go,” Abby swallows and it seems to the mechanic that the effort of talking causes her physical pain. Fatigue lines her face and she looks older, hopeless.

“Abigail...” there it is, the sudden surge of anger at herself. Why can't she offer any comfort to the medic? She feels guilt and looks down at her tools, still coated with fluids and her hands black with grime. Maybe she should have run more diagnostics, maybe she should have tried to talk Abby out of an endeavor born of desperation. Maybe she should have asked for more time.

“Go, Raven. I will keep my promise.” Abby's tone admits no discussion and she gets up, ashamed that the biggest part of her is relieved at the dismissal, relieved to be away from that room where she has spent so many hours and where the air now is heavy with grief and laced with loss. She knows that shame will burn her like a firebrand on bare skin and she cannot help but admire the Medical Officer, whose last words to her are not of blame, but soothing and Raven knows how much it must have cost her to say them, as broken and exposed as she is by her tragedy. Then she thinks about Finn and what she has just done to save him, and tears prick her eyes too.

 

* * *

 

After the echo of Raven's footsteps fades away completely, Abby lets out a small sob and the dam of her force of will breaks, letting the tears spill freely down her cheeks. With a swipe of her hand she clears the workbench from the debris of their failure and yanks power from the monitors, before dropping heavily on the chair the mechanic has occupied moments earlier. She rests her elbows on the table and covers her face with her hands, as the memory of the launch, the system failure, Clarke's frantic breathing assaults her.

More tears come and now that she is alone, she doesn't make any effort to stop them. Alone. First Jake, now her child. She is the last Griffin on the Ark. She wishes she could have comforted her daughter, but all she could do as they watched the pod spiral out of the intended trajectory, had been to listen to Clarke's labored breaths and watch rooted to the spot as Raven tried to salvage things. She can't fault the kid for what happened, even if the grieving mother inside her would like to. In hindsight, she regrets dragging the girl into her plan, although she is glad she doesn't have to bear the guilt alone and she despises herself for the sentiment.

She should leave too, before the Guard comes, but she is unable to. Abby realizes she hopes to be found, she wants to be found and judged guilty, and sent to walk in Jake's footsteps and finally atone for the death of her husband, who was right on so many things and who she did not believe until it was to late to change her course. She is tired of shouldering the guilt, and now that a fresh burden presses on her shoulders, she doubts she can bear it all without crawling. All she feels now is defeat. Her fight is over.

The door hisses open and she lifts her head. She does not need to turn to know who it is. A low male voice gives a quiet order, then she feels a hand on her shoulder. She looks up and meets Kane's stern gaze. His handhold tightens.

“Will you come with me, Abby?” There is an almost invisible shift in his stance, as if he is expecting her to resist. She sighs wearily.

“Where else could I go, Marcus?”

She stands and turns towards the door, Marcus keeps a hand on her arm, ready to hold her if she bolts. Abby's legs feel weak and cramped and her palms are sweaty so she wipes them on her pants. Marcus mistakes it for nervousness and his grip becomes firmer.

“I am not about to faint on you, Marcus,” she cannot hold back a hint of sarcasm despite everything and his brow furrows, his eyes harden to flint and bore into hers.

The Guards he has brought fall in step behind them as they begin walking and soon it becomes apparent he is taking her to the Sky Box. The corridors of Alpha Station, usually bustling with activity at this hour when the day shift crew tiredly drags itself to chew, are quiet and Abby realizes that Kane must have ordered their route cleared. She reflects that she would probably do the same in his place: the station is small, idle hands always gossip and it doesn't matter that the work of keeping the Ark in one piece could occupy each of them for several generations over, someone _always_ finds the time to talk.

She looks at each corridor, each turn she has walked time and time again and they all seem unfamiliar, almost alien to her. She wonders at the feeling of estrangement before thinking that it is not the station that has changed, but herself. She is a criminal now, set apart from what is left of the human race by her own actions. She imagines that her husband and Clarke must have felt the same, and as the image of her daughter's face floats in front of her eyes a new wave of tears threatens to drown her.

She closes her eyes then, letting Marcus guide her, unable to look upon the familiar surroundings any longer. When they stop and a door is opened with a loud clang in front of them, she is forced to look as he pushes her through.

“What have you done, Abby?” He crosses his arms on his chest, waiting on the threshold expectantly, but she is no longer listening as she takes in the walls of the cell, every inch of gunmetal gray transformed into a canvas for Clarke's art.

“Abby?” she shakes her head and he gives a sigh of exasperation as he places a hand on the door, “if you don't confess to me, you will to the Chancellor.”

The door bangs shut, sealing her off from the world, but Abby does not care now. She pivots on herself slowly, the feeble light that makes it inside through the frost encrusted porthole, helping her pick out details. A skyscraper, a city at its feet, sprawling, teeming with life, and on the opposite wall the thickest forest, swirls of fog curling up from the ground and a deer caught in mid-flight by an invisible hunter.

She remembers with a sad, fond smile, the avid curiosity with which Clarke had always devoured books, especially those that told of wild places and the struggle of man with nature. She steps closer to the forest drawing, marveling at the rich detail with which each leaf, each blade of grass is picked out. She almost presses her face to the cold metal, feeling Clarke's presence tighten like a warm blanket around her tired limbs.

Marcus will soon figure out exactly what she has done, if he has not already. A stupid man would not be at the head of the Guard. Maybe he has placed her in Clarke's own cell with the intent to break her. She cannot hold back a small laugh, as she sits cross-legged on the floor, and eyes wide open, takes in her daughter's hopes and dreams smeared on the walls.

Abby makes them her own and feels, for the first time in this horrible night, the spark of resilience ignite in her chest.

 

 


	2. Review/ Survival Of The Fittest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A piece of the puzzle falls into place and more of Abby's plan is revealed. Meanwhile Clarke has to adapt quickly in order to survive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have spent considerable time in the woods as a child, so it is a pleasure to write about nature and wildlife. I have also tried to imagine and expand on the conditions in which the Delinquents are detained on the Ark, and assumed Abby knows what she is doing.
> 
> As usual kudos and comments are much appreciated. Knowing what you think of the story, helps me improve!  
> A big thank you to all that are reading. Hope you enjoy!

 

“ _Life is not always a matter of holding good cards,_

_but sometimes, playing a poor hand well.”_

\- Jack London

 

_Clarke shifts with a sigh, trying to find a more comfortable position on the cold, hard floor. It would be nice to have the luxury of an extra pillow or two, but she guesses she is lucky the Guard allows her mother to supply her with charcoals, even though she is not allowed to talk neither to her nor Jackson, when they come to her cell for the monthly physical. She knows every last one of the Delinquents goes through the same rigorous tests, but they are taken to the Medical Wing. She is never allowed to leave or interact with any of them, although she hears them yell sometimes, even through the thick steel of the door._

_She cannot fathom why they bother to keep them in good health, as the dreaded suspicion they will all get floated anyway never leaves her._

_She lifts her gaze, the soft scratch of the charcoal on metal stopping for a moment and looks to the far side of the room. The lights are off most of the time in her cell, but she can make out the portrait of Abby she has sketched, what feels like an age ago now. It had been the first drawing after she was put in lockup. She had been terrified they would float her any minute and scared that memories of her mother would fade, like those of her father had already done. His face had been muddled by grief first, then his mannerism, then the events of her childhood had coalesced into one big lump, separate memories merging into one long flash of longing._

_The same kind of longing that squeezes her heart now, as she thinks of how she misses her mom, the long hours spent in the infirmary, learning how humans work and how to fix them when they don’t. She misses the knowledge, the exhaustion after a long day assisting Abby or Jackson as they go through the never ending queue of patients. Her whole self is adrift and as more and more days go by, she becomes less connected with the reality of the station. She thinks it would be easy to lose herself completely, so she treasures every moment she can recall of her life before her innocence was stripped away, the moment she listened in on her father recording his fateful message._

_The lights turn on suddenly and she practically jumps to her feet, throwing an arm across her eyes to protect them from the glare searing her retinas. When she can look again, through a haze of tears, two Guards are stepping inside the cell._

_The tallest gestures with his shock baton._

“ _Prisoner 319, face the wall.”_

_Clarke’s stomach churns and bile bites at the back of her throat as she pleadingly lifts her hands. She has known this moment would come, since she turned eighteen a few weeks back, and has tried to prepare for the call to review. She isn’t ready by a long shot. Shock and fear race through her in equal measure and she takes an involuntary step back._

“ _Wait… is it time?” Clarke realizes she is babbling, words falling onto one another in haste. She bites the inside of her cheek with force and breathes deeply through her nose, failing to tame the hammering in her chest._

“ _Face the wall, NOW!” the Guardsman presses forward and electricity courses along the slender baton with a hum that makes her teeth ache._

“ _Stop!” Abby’s commanding tones halt the man in his tracks and she strides to Clarke purposefully, followed by Jackson who is carrying a medical kit._

“ _Mom? What’s going on?” Clarke blurts it out without thought and her mother’s slight shake of the head is a clear message to keep silent. The Guardsman shoots her a hard look._

“ _Quiet, prisoner,” he growls. Clarke notices he has deactivated the shock stick, but not folded it away. Abby sighs and motions Jackson to place the supplies on Clarke’s cot. As she takes out various empty test tubes and syringes, she spares the Guard a look._

“ _I am sure my daughter will comply, if you give her some space, Guardsman,” Clarke has many questions, but she holds them close as she plays along and lowers her head meekly as she sits down on the small bed. Her mother’s work is hard enough without her complicating things, and she needs to gather as much goodwill as possible if she wishes her review to have a positive outcome._

“ _Jackson, will you take a sample from the water supply? And get a reading of the air quality as well please,” Abby motions for Clarke to roll up one of her sleeves as she readies a syringe. With economic motions she ties a tourniquet around her bicep and Clarke wonders why her hands feel clammy against her skin. Her mother’s fingers tremble slightly. Maybe she is as unnerved by the Guards practically hovering a few paces away as Clarke feels. Maybe there is something Abby is not telling her. She sucks a breath in sharply as the needle tunnels into her flesh and resists the urge to jerk away from her mother’s hold. Clarke watches as Abby fills vial after vial with her blood and her mother meets her questioning look. Clarke shifts and she a flash of warning in Abby’s eyes._

_Curiosity is eating at her; she had her physical only the week before and she can see how both her mother and Jackson seem to be on the brink of exhaustion, as if they are overworked._

_While she is trying to figure out a way to ask what is going on without getting in trouble again, Jackson breaks the silence._

“ _The air seems clean, Abby.” The Guard who has threatened Clarke, scoffs derisively. “I told you ma’am. She is in isolation and…” an immediate stab of loneliness hits Clarke as Abby lets go of her arm._

“ _She is breathing the same air as the kids that got sick on this block, Guardsman. And she may be in isolation, but you still bring her two meals a day. One of you could be asymptomatic.” The man raises a hand to stop her tirade, looking abashed and she relents, but Clarke notices the tension barely hidden under the professional façade._

“ _Just let me do my job, ok?” Abby shoots her one last look as she packs the vials away and Clarke supposes they will be tested for traces of whatever bacteria or virus that is making people sick. She understands the risks of an Ark-wide epidemic: their medical supplies are rationed as it is, since they cannot manufacture enough to keep up with the demand and a spread of whatever disease this is, would put additional pressure on resources already stretched as thin as they can possibly be._

_Abby stands with a sigh and turns to Jackson._

“ _Give her the boost shot while I run this to the bio lab, then meet me in medical. We need to go over the notes before we brief the Council.”_

_One of the Guards steps out with Abby, while the second leans against the wall next to Clarke’s cot and nods towards Jackson._

“ _Make it quick. I’ve got rounds to make before lights out.”_

_Jackson sketches a mock salute and the Guard smirks. He seems more at ease now that her mother has left, and Clarke wonders if he was trying to impress her because she sits on the Council or was just nervous about having to control so many people. She realizes she is frowning at the man only when Jackson taps her on the shoulder, motioning for her to take her arm out of the sleeve of her shirt._

“ _This will sting a bit,” he says as he presses the shot dispenser to her skin. The Guard leans forward._

“ _What’s in it?”_

_Clarke feels the inoculated fluid spread into her muscle, a sensation like sunburn on the skin, that lessens as the liquid penetrates tissue._

“ _A boost for the immune system,” Jackson explains, while putting his instruments away, “vitamins mostly, some antibacterial agents. Anyone in this wing that may have been exposed to contagion is getting a shot.” Clarke is half listening as sudden goosebumps race down her arms and she shivers, hastily slipping back into her shirt._

_The two men withdraw to the door, still talking._

“ _...see me after you shift...” Jackson's voice is cut off abruptly as the door bangs shut and Clarke lets out a long breath, as the tension leaves her body. Her shoulders sag and she feels a twinge in her neck as taut muscles struggle to relax. She doubts she could stand, even if there was somewhere she could go. She was so sure they had come to take her to her review, that now she feels like laughing hysterically, dancing, crying, maybe all at once. Instead she sits on her cot, staring at nothing, wrapping her arms around herself as abrupt chills tickle her spine._

_An hour or so later, terrible cramps violently bend her over, irradiating pain from her abdomen to every inch of her body._

_The screams follow soon after._

* * *

 

The scream rips out of her throat and Clarke jerkily pushes upright. Memory comes rushing back and, as she takes in the dead console and the battered insides of the pod she realizes that everything has been real. The voice calling her name, the heat, the terrible impact.

She shakes her shoulders experimentally and groans as every bruise on her body makes itself known. With unsteady hands she disengages the helmet from the rest of the suit and takes it off, with a hiss of escaped air. Quickly she runs her hands along her upper limbs and gingerly presses along her ribs. She will have to take off the bulky space suit to make sure, but she can tell her ribs are bruised, if not broken and every movement brings fresh sweat on her brow, despite her caution.

When she looks down, she swears loudly, as her gaze travels along her thigh. Something has torn the suit wide open and her pants underneath and she can glimpse a cut breaking her skin. She flexes her muscles and agony strikes her flesh, like the stab of a hot knife. Clarke moans and thinks that, before she can try to put any weight on that leg, she needs to assess the wound better. She cannot stay inside the pod forever and having seen the tear in her suit, she assumes that Earth is survivable. But who has sent her down and why?

The ghastly pain of the cramps that crippled her in her cell is still vivid, if more feeble and surpassed by the more pressing aches of her cuts and bruises. She remembers the Guards rushing inside at her screams, the taste of blood and vomit, hot in her mouth as she lay on the floor writhing and her mother’s voice barking orders. But no matter how hard she tries to focus, how she got from there to inside a drop-pod remains a mystery.

She shoves speculation aside for a later time and helping herself with her teeth, peels her gloves off, tossing them aside. One of them is badly burned and useless anyway. She tears more of the suit away from her leg and grimaces, when dried blood flakes off the cut and fresh one seeps out and soaks her pants. With careful fingers she widens the gash and probes it and takes a better look. There is enough light, coming through the half torn pod door that she can see what she is doing, despite the motes of dust and grit that make the air hazy and coat the back of the throat when she breathes.

The wound seems straight and clean, easy to stitch with the proper tools and not as deep as she feared, but Clarke knows it can kill her yet if she doesn’t care for it properly. The first thing she needs to do is wash it, so infection does not settle in, but for now she tears a good strip of cloth from the innermost layer of the suit and winds it tightly around her thigh. Then, leaning her weight against the side of the pod, she stands slowly and carefully shifts more of her balance onto her injured leg.

It throbs, but doesn’t buckle and Clarke reckons she can stand and walk, although she hopes she will not need to run anytime soon. She proceeds to remove the rest of the suit, and it takes longer that she would like, as she has to halt several times and wait for the waves of lingering dizziness to pass. Whatever has caused her to be sick, has weakened her, a headache is building behind her eyes and she recognizes one of the first signs of dehydration.

She is about to let the suit fall to the ground when her fingers find a piece of crumpled paper tucked inside an inner pocket. She pries it out carefully. It is soaked with her sweat and when she unfolds it, part of it sticks together and rips when she forces it apart. Whatever had been hastily scribbled on it, is lost, the ink splotched and diluted by the heat of her body, but she does not need to see the words to know who it comes from. Paper is a rare commodity on the Ark as she knows well. Her mom had to drive a hard bargain to get her sketchbooks and Clarke herself would sometimes trade her rations to acquire more, and then fill every last scrap of them with her drawings.

This particular piece of paper has been torn from a book. Clarke runs her fingers lovingly along the creases on the page. The stamped frontispiece, worked out in antique lettering reads _“Call of the Wild” by Jack London_. It has always been her favorite and she has read it so many times that the tome from which the page comes is practically falling apart.

“Mom…” Clarke wonders how her mother could have sent her down. Certainly she must have had help. Did Abby know she would fail her review? Had Chancellor Jaha already decided to float her before hearing her out? Was there even to _be_ a review for Clarke?

The pain in her leg intensifies and Clarke is forcefully brought back to the present and necessities she cannot wait on. She hobbles around the close confines of the pod, looking for the supply pack she knows will be there. Her mother would not have sent her down with nothing more than the clothes on her back. Not after devising such an elaborate plan.

She spots it, tucked in a small storage space behind her seat, but her relieved sigh turns into a half sob as she picks it up. They must have packed some water for her but the bottle has ruptured in the landing and the contents have soaked everything through. Clarke frenziedly rummages through it, then lets it fall in sullen desperation. Only the vacuum sealed rations are salvageable and they won’t last her more than a few days at best. The medical powders and vials have been smashed around and form an unidentifiable sludge at the bottom of the bag. There is also a broad-bladed knife sheathed under the rations, of the kind the Guard learns to fight with during training.

She picks the rations out and sets them aside, secures the knife at her belt then makes her way to the pod’s blast door. Clarke considers how lucky she is to be alive and mostly unscathed as she surveys the damage. One of the door’s hinges has been completely torn away in the impact, the steel bent outwards almost at a ninety degree angle and the metal slab’s own weight has warped the other so that the door hangs open, but not enough for her to squeeze through.

As she steps to the opening and gives it a tentative push, the alluring scent of the outside wafts through to her. She feels a light breeze make its way into the pod and ruffle her hair. She has never felt wind before and she thinks she would revel in the sensation if it weren’t for the soreness that pervades her bones.

Clarke leans more of her weight into the metal and after a few minutes of struggle, it gives way with a groan, allowing her to step outside.

Her heart quickens as her feet touch the ground. It’s soft, mossy dirt and fallen leaves and it gives off a rich and earthly scent when she walks on it. Fallen twigs snap under her boots and as she looks upward she feels the vastness of the sky engulf her. Her breaths come shorter and faster and she starts to feel lightheaded, but try as she might, she cannot control herself. For someone that has not known the sky, save for a man-made one of unchanging metal, pipes and wires there is so much emotion that it borders dangerously close to blind panic.

Clarke resists the urge to rush back inside, to the confines of the world she knows and lets curiosity take her hand and guide her forwards. She is enthralled by the multitude of the forest’s hues that surround her, the greens ranging from the pale whitish of newly sprouted leaves to the deep, almost black tones of the moss carpeting the woods’ floor. Green, gold, fiery red, subdued browns and the stark gray of rocks. It’s a riot of color that sends her creativity reeling, one that she could have never have hoped to transfer to her drawings based on mere description. Clarke doesn’t find it hard to believe that she could stand there for hours, just taking it all in, but again it is her struggling body that reminds her of the task at hand.

She concentrates and hears, entwined with all the other sounds she cannot yet put a name to, the unmistakable one of running water. Her mouth fills instantly with saliva and she licks her fissured lips eagerly. She starts walking, even if every step sends spasm up her leg to her lower back.

Soon enough she is rewarded with the twinkling of sun on water amid the foliage and she comes to a stop at the edge of a narrow yet deep creek. Water rushes quickly downhill from where she stands and, even if the sun is almost at its zenith, Clarke catches flashes of silver under the shimmering surface. She will not lack for food at least, if she can catch any of it.

She drops to her knees with a pained grunt and unceremoniously dunks her head under the water. It’s icy cold and she re-emerges with a gasp, the gold of her hair muted, spraying droplets everywhere. She shakes her head around like she has seen dogs do in old movies and laughs, forgetting her pain for a moment in the face of unabated joy. At being alive, at being... _home_.

Slower now, more composed she cups her hands and pushes them in the water, shivering. She gulps the liquid down eagerly and she has never tasted something so sweet. It sings on her tongue, of wild things and resin and the smell of pine on a summer evening, and she has to force herself to stop before she has too much of it and it makes her retch.

Clarke uses the knife to cut a strip at the bottom of her shirt and sets it on a nearby rock. Then she unfastens the makeshift bandage around her thigh, and gently tugs it away from the cut grimacing. In the sunlight the wound is red and glistening, but she feels reassured at the lack of pus or smell. Before she can move and gather some water to clean it she hears a rustling in between the bushes behind her.

Her body freezes for a moment, then Clarke's instincts take over and her hand darts out and grabs the knife she had left bare-bladed on the ground next to her. Her eyes try without success to pierce the greenery, but she glimpses a fleeting shadow, ephemeral like a wisp of smoke, long gone before her gaze can focus on a shape. Everything falls quiet again, but she remains tense, noting that all sound has stopped.

A low growl is all the warning she has before the wolf explodes in a leap from the undergrowth. She tries to push back and her injured leg gives way beneath her and she collapses on her back as the beast, all fangs and yellow eyes closes in on her throat.

Clarke screams in terror and, as the wolf's shadow hides the sun, she brings the knife up.

Its jaws snap shut with a wet crunch.

 

 


	3. Trial/ Watchers In The Trees/ Fisa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Abigail and Raven have to confront different demons, while on the Ground, Clarke is faced by mortal dangers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone that is reading! As always kudos and comments are welcome, and I treasure them all.
> 
> Also, they say the devil hides in the details, and the story is becoming more and more intricate. So, should you find any discrepancy, do not hesitate to leave me a line! I always aim to improve my writing!
> 
> EDIT: a small edit at the end- swapped Grounder with Trikru

 

“ _Life lived on life. There were the eaters and the eaten._ _The law was: EAT OR BE EATEN.”_

\- Jack London

 

“I am glad they allowed you to wait with me, Jackson,” she says earnestly, as she tugs at the handcuff chafing her skin, “they required your testimony, so I am surprised they did.”

He pats her arm awkwardly, showing a brave face for her benefit. Abby wants to tell him, he doesn’t need to hide the fear she sees behind his guarded looks, but she is tired. She has slept only lightly in the past three days, always wakened by the remembered sound of Clarke’s breathing, limbs shaking, heart pummeling against her ribs.

She had spent those days practically alone, the Guards that brought her meals barely acknowledging her, and Marcus had not come to question her. She was not at all surprised when the summons to trial came and she had to begrudgingly admit that Marcus had worked quickly. Then again, she muses, he has always been an efficient man.

She stretches out her legs with a sigh and leans her head back against the wall, closing her eyes for a moment. The bench she sits on is hard and cold, and part of her only wishes them to get it over with and float her already. The kernel of resilience that woke in her, while she spent time in her daughter’s cell, feels different.

Jackson leans forward, shooting a careful look at the duty officer, rigidly standing in front of the Council Chamber’s doors.

“Of course I wanted to wait with you, Abby. You…” he stops suddenly and lowers his gaze. She doesn’t need him to finish the sentence. _You have no one else to stand with you._

“Kane thinks you poisoned Clarke to get her out,” he changes topic abruptly then hesitates, waiting to see if the guard will react to his whispering, before continuing, “he has not said so directly, but his questions were telling.”

“He thinks I manipulated the serum,” she replies slowly and Jackson nods. “I told him… told all of them it is impossible. I gave Clarke the injection and prepared all of the doses myself.”

Abby would give him the reassurance he seeks if she could. It is obvious to her that he desperately wants to believe she is innocent, but hears the doubt that makes his voice quiver. It had been so easy to swap vials when she was taking Clarke’s blood, with tension up and the Guards' attention focused solely on her daughter.

She tells herself she should be honest with him, that her fate is sealed regardless, the decision already made, but there is a stubborn part of her that won’t keep quiet. What if Clarke survived despite the odds? And what of the Culling advocated by Kane to extend their oxygen reserves? Nobody has yet come up with an alternative plan, but the numbers he proposes border on genocide. She and Jaha have stalled a decision so far, but there is no guarantee that whoever is elected to replace her won’t side with Kane.

She believes Jackson is more than capable to manage the medical facilities and she wants to tell him, but doing so would admit defeat and she comes to the realization she is not as ready to give it all up as she lulled herself into thinking.

“They are taking an awful long time,” she mutters instead.

“I think it’s a good…” her aide trails off as raised voices float down the hall and break into their quiet conversation. They hear Jaha calling for order and Marcus’ angry retort, even if the words are indistinguishable.

“Seems like they are fighting about you.”

Abby fails to hold back a bemused smirk. “I believe I would be flattered under other circumstances.”

The doors open and Kane steps outside, walking briskly to them as they fall silent. He looks down at Abby, and she can see he is quivering with anger, his jaw clenched so tight she thinks she can hear the grinding of his teeth.

“Abigail Griffin, you are summoned to hear the charges pressed against you.” He bites off every word, and his fingers close around her arm like iron vices as he hauls her to her feet and pushes her towards the door.

It feels like she is walking to the gallows, and she thinks it may not be too far from the truth.

 

* * *

 

 

“Spread your arms out, Reyes.”

Raven sighs and gives the man an exasperated eye roll. He _knows_ she got nothing on herself and she tells him so. They play this scene out every Visitation Day, but this time their banter leaves a bitter taste in her mouth.

“You know the rules, Reyes. Who knows? Maybe today is the day you decide to break your boyfriend out,” he holds a portable metal detector near her torso, “not that it hasn’t happened already.” He adds under his breath.

“You just like to wave your stick around…” she falters and frowns as all of his words register. “Wait, what did you say?” She feels the shock, starting to spread across her features and a queasiness in the pit of her stomach. Surely, if they knew, they would have come for her already?

“You haven’t heard? Some kid got sick and they took her to medical and then she vanished and there was an accident with an escape pod. People are putting things together,” He snaps his fingers in front of her face for emphasis. “Between that and the epidemic on Block 2, you are lucky you even _get_ to see your boyfriend.” His tone drops again, conspiratorially. “Kane wanted to forbid visiting, but if he did we’d have a riot on our hands too.”

He shakes his head and gestures her to go through, “Just…forget I said anything, all right? I have a son in there,” his mouth turns down in displeasure, but Raven sees the fatherly worry filling his eyes, “I don’t want any trouble.”

She knows his kid through what Finn tells her of life in the Sky Box. The name is Miller, she thinks. Finn told her he is in lockup for theft, but she believes it would not be tactful to make his dad aware she knows. She assumes he feels shame, being part of the Guard and all, and she likes the way he jokes with her too much to let such a wall be thrown up between them. He is actually a likeable Guard which is quite a rare thing.

She hastens inside the visiting hall and sits at the assigned desk, settling in to wait for Finn to appear. He comes through a door that leads into the cell block proper a few minutes later, flanked by two Guards and Raven notices for the first time that security has been increased. She is sure that, if asked, the dour faced men would chalk it up to the quarantine measures, and that Miller’s dad really could get in trouble for his slip up.

“Hey,” as always Finn puts his hands, palms facing outwards, against the glass that separates them and as always she responds in kind. His cuffs jingle and she feels a pang of sadness and regret at seeing him chained like that.

“Hey,” Raven’s smile is tremulous and she tries to hide the sudden swell of emotion that invests her. She blinks her eyes rapidly, hoping no tears will spill out.

As always, he sees right through her.

“What’s wrong? You look exhausted…” Raven shakes her head, and she has to swallow the hard lump in her throat, before replying.

“Just work. Sinclair is driving me hard. You won’t believe how many things can manage to break all at once.”

Finn taps lightly on the glass, “I can, and it never ceases to amaze me, but that isn’t the reason why you look ready to burst into tears.” He drops his head, so that his hair fall forward, half hiding his eyes, and gives her a pleading expression.

Raven sighs, then she leans forward and hesitates. Reason is telling her that she should wait to share the news: the fact that Abby has pledged to convince the Council of his rehabilitation, does not mean she will succeed. She doesn't want to give him false hope when he may already have managed to come to terms with a fate she cannot herself accept. Her heart however aches to see him free, so words spill out of her in a rush.

“I have talked to Abigail Griffin and she has promised to talk on your behalf.” Finn stiffens at the name, his face going blank, and motions her to hush.

He leans so close to the glass, the surface is clouded by his breath for a moment.

“You said Griffin? What has she asked you in return for her help?” There is such a hard edge to his voice that makes Raven recoil so violently her chair moves back with a screech and he softens his tone, his worried eyes fastening onto hers.

“There is a rumor going around that she has been _arrested_. Some guy heard two Guards discuss it, when they thought he was asleep,” Finn's gaze never leaves hers. “Whatever she wants from you, you can get floated for it Raven.”

She feels a numbness creep up from the soles of her feet to her legs, then the rest of her body. Raven has to lean heavily against the table to force herself to stand. It's like a yawning hole has opened in her chest and the guilt she has tried to keep at bay by telling herself she did what was necessary to give Finn the chance to live, storms her weakened defenses as she raises a hand to her mouth, stifling a sorrowful moan. She stumbles backwards, almost tripping on her own feet and her stomach contracts. She knows she has to get out of there before she crumbles completely and she turns and rushes for the door.

“Raven! _RAVEN_ wait!” Finn jumps to his feet and his own chair falls to the ground with a crash, but she is too shocked, too lost in her momentum to stop herself from fleeing.

His calls chase her out, and she squeezes her eyes tightly shut and runs on blindly, too upset to care that the Guards are smirking about what must look like a bad breakup. She runs all the way to Mecha Station, blundering into people and walls alike, muttering apologies as unshed tears, blur the world around her to a cacophony of senseless shapes.

She barges through the door to her modest quarters and brings up her breakfast on the floor and then some. She has spent her free time since the accident, running the diagnostics in her head again and again, looking for a flaw that could have caused the malfunction, a skewered calculation that now she sees with clarity. She tries to tell herself she was not thinking clearly, as overworked as she was between her regular shifts and helping Abby, but it sounds like the weakest of excuses, even in her mind. She retches again, but her stomach is emptied and nothing comes up, if not perhaps a part of her soul.

She has always known in the darkest corner of her mind that the launch would fail. She had the opportunity to tell Abby, yet she has kept silent, sure perhaps naively, that luck would be on their side. She had thought fate would turn a blind eye and accept her bargain: Clarke's life spared on the Ground and Finn back at her side. Raven sobs uncontrollably and covers her face with her hands, feeling that she had abandoned reason the moment she went along with Finn's crazy idea of a birthday spacewalk, and that everything has just been an uncontrolled descent from there.

She cries because she knows Abby cannot help her now, and she has become a murderer for nothing.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Abby’s gaze lingers on each Councilor’s face, searching for clues. One or two won’t even meet her eyes, Marcus’ visage is thunderous with barely contained anger and, when her eyes rest on Thelonious’ features, they appear stony, as if carved from dark granite.

“The restraints, Marcus,” the Chancellor seems drained by the long meeting, “they are not necessary.” Kane obliges stiffly, and Abby has to fight down the urge to massage her wrists. She will not show them any weakness.

He lets the handcuffs drop to the floor, then joins the others who stand in a line across the table from her. She sees a look pass between him and Jaha, and the Chancellor gives the barest of nods. Marcus clears his throat once, and draws himself up.

“You stand accused of treason for participating in the escape of prisoner 319, plus unauthorized appropriation and launch of a drop-pod in aid of said escape,” he pauses for a moment, then with deliberate finality says, ”the sentence for your crimes is death.”

Abby sighs and her chest unclenches as the wait is finally over. She lowers her gaze to the table, and the glint of her badge of office catches her eye for the first time. She hopes the Council will elect someone worthy, and that they will be quick about it. The Ark’s time is running out and there are hard decisions waiting ahead.

“Abigail,” the gentleness in Thelonious. voice stuns her and when she lifts her gaze to meet his, the unreadable mask is gone even if his wariness lingers.

“What Marcus fails to mention,” and he shoots a hard look at the Head of Security, “is that we have reached an impasse. The Council vote is split on the matter, as the proof gathered appears… _inconclusive_. If falls to me to break the tie”

Kane opens his mouth in protest, but before he can speak, Thelonious continues. “We have an affidavit from your aide, Jackson on the procedures followed to manufacture and administer the immunization shots in Cell Block 2. While Marcus maintains you have deliberately poisoned your daughter to free her and it _is_ possible that you have swapped her dose with something…harmful, there is no satisfactory proof that you _actually_ did.”

Marcus cannot keep quiet any longer and interrupts him, pounding a fist on the table. “You know she had the opportunity Thelonious! And Jackson is her _friend_ as well as her colleague, he could be covering for her!” By the end of the sentence he is screaming, and the Chancellor turns to face him, his fury horrible to behold in its suddenness.

Their gazes war for what seems like an eternity. Abby fancies she can see sparks fly between them and the air shimmer with the heat of their anger.

“You forget yourself Marcus! I gave you ample time for investigation, yet you came back empty handed! I asked you for proof and you brought me scraps, and you failed to produce any of the conspirators that you claim helped Abigail!”

Kane points at her and his burning gaze seems to dig into her, stripping layers away until she feels dissected by his scrutiny.

“Then explain to me why we found her near the launch bay!”

She interjects, surprising even herself, “I went to check on Clarke in the infirmary,” her voice catches at her daughter’s name, but as she forces the words out, the lie becomes easier to tell, “she was gone and then I heard alarms sound and saw the Guard rushing by.”

“So you happened to find the _exact_ launch bay she ejected from? And got there before anyone else?” Marcus’ voice in incredulous. She holds his gaze and lets her grief shine through. “I was too late,” she whispers.

“Enough, Marcus.” Thelonious raises a hand for emphasis, to end the discussion., but Abby can tell from the stubborn set of Kane’s jaw that he will not listen, or bend.

“She is lying to you, Thelonious! Don’t you see…”

“I see a woman who is grieving for the child that has been taken away from her, Marcus,” Jaha leans forward, resting his hands on the table and his voice is layered with such frost that it is clear he will not allow further debate, ”I see a woman who came to me, when her husband threatened the security of the Ark. I see a woman, who puts our collective safety above all else, even her heart’s desires. Even if it causes her such an obvious a suffering.” He sighs and Abby thinks the toll his burden is exacting on him has never been so apparent, “I have reached my decision.“

He straightens, his tone formal once more.

“Abigail Griffin, this Council hereby declares you acquitted of the crimes ascribed to you. You may go back to your quarters and return to your duties.”

Marcus shakes his head, his mouth a thin line of anger, but holds his peace as the other Councilors break ranks and file out, some now nodding to Abby as they pass. She has no illusion that the words of pardon she just heard reside in all of their hearts and, as Jaha had to break the tie, it is quite apparent that half backed Marcus and found his evidence sufficient enough to float her.

She turns to go herself, but Jaha clears his throat, stopping her in her tracks.

“Aren’t you forgetting something, Abby?” He holds up her Councilor’s badge, then walks over to her and pins it to her jacket himself, patting her shoulder gently.

“I meant _all_ of your duties.”

Marcus snorts bitterly, and Thelonious squeezes her shoulder encouragingly. “We cannot afford division,” he tells them both, “not when we have far more pressing matters to attend to and so little time. I consider this matter closed Marcus, and I mean it.” He looks at both of them one last time and then leaves. Even his steps sound tired.

Abby turns to go herself, and she catches a glimpse of Jackson’s relieved expression. She doesn’t exactly know how long the trial lasted, but it feels like a lifetime and her heart leaps at seeing his friendly face after such an ordeal. All she wants is to bury herself in work, and tire herself out, so that at night she may be blessed with a dreamless sleep. She wants to break down and cry her daughter properly, but does not want to do it in front of Kane. She wants above all, for something good to come from her mistakes.

“I will be watching you Abby,” he tells her quietly.

She keeps on walking, but the heat of his gaze burns like wildfire against her back.

 

* * *

 

Anya waits for a gust of wind that makes the leaves whisper, then she carefully shifts her weight, obliging with her body the motion of the branches. She is one with the forest, silent and unseen.

She cannot spot Tris, hidden in the trees on the other side of the small clearing, but knows that she is there. Pride for her pupil swells in her chest. The child blends perfectly in the woods, a small ghost dressed in gray-green garments and flexible armor the color of old bark. She has almost as much talent as the Commander at her age.

Anya is similarly garbed for hunting, the parts of her that are not covered by cloth, leather or dull metal, smeared with war paint.

Her movements have put her almost on top of the wolf creeping among the bushes, biding its time before seizing the prey. She could easily drop down and end it, yet she waits, her eyes flicking to the sun-haired girl kneeling at the edge of the brook. Her mouth curls with contempt. She has never seen someone so out of tune with nature. The girl makes as much noise as an army on the march, the branches snapping under her heavy tread as loud as the guns carried by the Mountain Men and she leaves a trail so obvious, even a blind man could follow her.

They had waited for an entire day before she trudged out of the structure that fell from the sky. Anya recalls the heat waves the metal gave off, the pops and groans as it cooled overnight. With the exuberance of youth, Tris had wanted to investigate, but Anya held her back, suspecting the object could be a weapon, or a trap.

The wolf lets out a low growl and the girl freezes then picks up the knife she had taken out earlier. It comes at her in a glimmer of jet-black fur and she turns, but it is upon her before she can flee. Anya had noticed as they followed her to the stream that she was badly injured, and now her legs give way under the beast's assault. The warrior glimpses the glint of the sun on bared steel, but the wolf's teeth close with a _click_ , and she shakes her head almost sadly.

Yet, the spray of arterial blood she is expecting does not come and the wolf is utterly still in a violent contrast to the powerful lunge of a few seconds before. She feels, rather than seeing, Tris sliding forwards on her perch and with a hand signal, orders her to stop.

The girl is buried under the animal, then Anya sees one of her legs kick out weakly, and her eyes widen.

 

* * *

 

 

Clarke’s face is buried in fur. It carries a thousand scents, dirt, fresh grass and sunlight mixed with the crueler smells of blood and carrion. She heaves upwards with a pained groan and feels the beast shift, and agonizingly slow, roll off her body. Opening her eyes, she brings disbelieving, trembling hands up to her face. They come away from the wolf, soaked in red and the tang of blood becomes so cloyingly sweet she gags.

The animal is huge, bigger than any she has ever seen on film or in science books. Its back is hunched as if its spine has grown abnormally, pushing the muscles up in ways not part of nature's original design. Its head is lolling lifelessly to the side, and she sees the knife stick out from underneath its jaw.

She gingerly stands and shuffles closer. Its eyes glint in the sun, and seem to follow, but she squints and sees the glaze of death settling in. With a deep breath, she wraps her hands around the knife's hilt and pulls forcefully. The blade comes out intact, the wound making a sucking sound as the metal slides free.

Absentmindedly Clarke cleans it on her pants, before sheathing it at her waist. The front of her shirt and her jacket are wet with fluids, and she remembers enough of her Earth Skills classes to know the stench will draw more predators. Wolves hunt in packs, but the rest may be shy of approaching the area because of the flames and the noise she brought down with herself when she landed.

She washes her hands hastily, as new bruises smart on her skin when she moves. She needs to take care of her leg, but cannot do it there, and the wolf's carcass is too heavy for her to shift and dump into the stream. The clean cloth she had prepared is still sitting where she left it, she picks it up and slowly edges away from the riverbank. She retraces her steps, glancing over her shoulder every few paces, even though she knows the beast will no longer hunt her. She feels like thousands of eyes are watching her every move.

Is this what the deer feels when run down by its hunters? The woods seem to close around Clarke threateningly and she jumps at every lengthening shadow.

Soon enough the corpse is lost to her sight, hidden behind trees and she picks up her pace.

She feels chills rake her back, and a numbness spreading to her muscles. Her body is reacting to the attack, going into shock, but she knows better than to stop and give into the sensation. She keeps her mind busy, listing what things she will take from the escape pod. She was planning to use it as refuge for a while, at least until she had scouted her surroundings, but if a pack of wolves is roaming these woods, she dare not risk it. Her hands start shaking at her sides and she clenches them into fists as she recalls the mighty maws, filled with razor-sharp teeth that closed inches from ripping out her face. The wolf had been so close it had breathed its last onto her, the smell akin to that of a freshly opened tomb.

By the time she gets to the landing zone, the sun has already started its descent towards dusk and the air carries a chill that plasters her wet shirt to her skin. The pain in her leg has grown to a searing ache and she stumbles up to the pod's entrance, leaning for a moment against the metal with relief.

A not so distant howl plunges the forest into silence and Clarke is shaken into motion. She clambers inside and cuts away what remains of the seat belts. She has spotted large parts of the landing parachute outside and she believes she can fashion a bundle to carry the packed rations with her.

After casting one last, regretful glance at the pod, she goes back out. The light has gained a bronze quality and when she looks upwards, the sun is only a few hands above the treetops. The first few scraps of the parachute she comes across, are too burned or torn by the fury of re-entry to be of any use, but then she finds one large enough that she can pile the rations in the middle and fold it over in a tight roll, which she secures with the re-purposed belts. The wolves howl again, closer this time, but she thinks she can still outrun them if she hurries. Maybe they will lose her scent.

She slings her bundle over one shoulder and shifts it around so it won't get in her way as she walks. Little spasms travel up her thigh, and sweat drips into her eyes, making them itch and burn. Her hand brushes the hilt of the knife, and she grips it, pulling it out its sheath with a soft hiss. Its weight feels reassuring in her hand, as she leaves the relative security of the landing zone.

Clarke does not have a canteen, so she cannot afford to stray too far from her only known source of water. She stops for a moment then, her mind made up, she decides she will follow the creek's course. She pushes the pain of her injuries to a part of her mind she refuses to acknowledge and leaves her first kill and her last ties with the Ark behind.

 

* * *

 

 

As they shadow the girl, Anya watches her move, with something akin to begrudging admiration. Already her stance has shifted. Maybe involuntarily, but when she walks, her steps are lighter than before, her whole demeanor more open to what the woods can tell her. Maybe she is letting her instincts guide her, like every Trikru child learns to do from the cradle, yet Anya believes she has never set foot in a forest before. Never in her entire life she has seen someone taking such pleasure at a small stream. It is almost endearing, but beneath the wonderment there is something wild and hard about the girl, that she cannot quite narrow down and it troubles her.

At first she thought the girl belonged to _Maunon,_ that somehow the Mountain Men had harnessed the power of the stars and learned to fly. Now, after having observed her for a full day, she is not so sure. There is definitely something... _other_... about her, as if she comes form somewhere so far removed from the life Anya knows, that it confounds her, repulsive and enticing at the same time.

As the forest grows darker, the girl stumbles more often. She falls on her knees, tripping on unseen roots and moans softly. The wind changes and the smell of sickness and hurt reaches Anya. She thinks the girl will have to stop soon, as her feet drag and her shoulders are stooped with exhaustion.

Quietly, she climbs down the canopy of branches, her hands and feet finding sure holds as she descends. A few meters away Tris follows her lead, and when their eyes meet Anya sees the question hang between them. Is it time to finish the hunt? She shakes her head and her second nods once, before melting back into the shadows.

Finally the girl stops, and looks around, then she chooses a spot and sets her bundle down against a tree trunk. Anya crouches nearby and looks on, interested. She could have chosen several better places to camp in the area surrounding them, but the girl picked well enough.

Again she feels confusion: it is like someone gave her knowledge, but never trained her on how to properly put it to use. She sees her potential. It is a pity they will have to kill her.

While she reflects upon the stranger's fate, Tris regroups with her, brown eyes never leaving their prey.

They watch as the girl gathers a few twigs, then settles down to start a fire. Anya sucks in a harsh breath; the camping site is very exposed, and they are close to Azgeda territory. A patrol could see the flames and decide to investigate. However the fire will keep the prowling wolf pack at bay, and the Ice Queen's men have more sense than to venture into the forest at night, when the beasts have the advantage. It is possible that they have seen the fiery comet fall on the edge of their land, but with luck she and Tris will be long gone by the time a patrol comes by.

The smell of smoke tickles her nostrils and she sees that the girl has completed her task. She is sitting next to the spitting flames now, feeding them more wood then, apparently satisfied she takes the knife and slices off the bandages around her leg. In the half light of the fire Anya sees her grimace as her eyes peruse her injured leg.

Tris touches her arm lightly.

“ _Teik ai frag em op,_ ” she whispers, so quietly her words are easily lost in the sigh of the breeze between the leaves. Anya denies her curtly, and watches on fascinated.

The girl has plunged the knife into the fire, and she wraps the discarded bandages around her hand before plucking it out with care. It is red hot, almost as if she has picked up a fragment of the fire itself. Anya watches her take a deep, shaking breath, then press the scalding blade to her flesh.

“ _Fisa,_ ” the word escapes her lips like a prayer. The girl hisses in pain, then cannot contain the agony any longer and throwing her head back, she screams to the heavens. It seems like the scream empties her of strength; when her throat is scraped raw she stops and the knife falls from nerveless fingers. Anya sees her eyes flutter close as she collapses and her grip on consciousness slips.

With a wave of the hand she sends Tris to circle the small camp from the other side, then reaches to the small of her back and withdraws a serrated dagger. She stalks into the clearing, a darker shadow among a hundred others. She has made her choice.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRANSLATION:
> 
> Maunon: Mountain Men
> 
> Teik ai frag em op: let me kill her
> 
> Fisa: healer
> 
> PS: I added this fic to a series and noticed when you add a work, the site assigns numbers in the order you add. 
> 
> Landfall and Stargazer are more on a parallel standing, so you can read either first, or just one, or none at all (but I hope you won't pick the last option)
> 
> In particular some details from Landfall will be referenced in Stargazer


	4. Fever Dream/ Potential/ Azgeda

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An unconscious Clarke is found by Grounders and gets her first glimpse of a woman that awaits in her future. Will she remember her at all when they finally meet? 
> 
> Meanwhile on the Ark, Abigail may have found a way to fix some mistakes, and aims to strike a truce with Marcus. Other enemies lurk in the shadows and bide their time as internal division threatens to make a bad situation even worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will probably not be updates until after Easter. The Commander is in town and I have to attend her. 
> 
> A big thank you to everyone commenting and leaving kudos- they mean a lot. Avanwolf, thank you for suggesting what Clarke's dinner should be.
> 
> As usual, if you see any mistakes, drop me a line below and I'll fix it!
> 
> PS: I know it's kinda slow, but Lexa is coming, I promise! Am I taking it too slow? You tell me ;)

“ _They alone moved through the vast inertness._

_They alone were alive,_

_and they sought for other things that were alive_

_in order that they might devour them and continue to live.”_

_-Jack London - White Fang_

 

 

Anya crouches silently next to the unconscious girl. The first thing she does, is press two fingers to the side of her throat, searching for a pulse. She cannot sense the thump of blood against skin immediately, so she closes her eyes, drawing in upon herself, excluding every other sensation, but the one she wishes to feel.

It _is_ there, feeble and threadbare, and she believes if they left the girl alone she would not see another sunrise. Again she evaluates herself: custom dictates she kill her, like any other that trespasses on Trikru land without a token of safe passage, yet she has seen the practiced way her hands moved, when examining the wound and how she learns quickly. She is a flame too bright, to snuff out without a thought, or fear of consequences.

She frowns, having lost the pulse again and bends forward, close enough to smell the girl's hurt, the grime that cakes her skin and the gore and guts drenching her clothes. The dagger flashes, catching the light briefly, then it descends and she holds it next to the girl's mouth. She watches intently until she sees the metal fog, then sheathes it with a swift motion.

Tris edges closer, her weapon still bared, clutched tightly in her right hand. She squats on her haunches on the other side of the crackling fire and her brown eyes seem to glow as she looks at Anya, without understanding.

There will be time for explanations and a lesson later, she thinks, when they will be safe away from Azgeda and the wolves, but she also knows Tris needs a task to keep her objections at bay.

The child is willful, so much so that some in her war band compare her stubborn streak with Lexa's. Anya would scarcely believe those words, if she had not trained both since childhood.

“ _Oso gaf dina,”_ Tris holds her gaze with defiant eyes for a second, before lowering her head in acknowledgment of her order.

“ _Ait.”_ It is a soft murmur of acquiescence, but it carries all of Tris' dissatisfaction.

“ _Nau,”_ Anya barks, her voice the crack of a whip against the hide of an insubordinate dog. Tris fades into the night without a sound, in the direction they came from. She will find them some meat and make sure the girl's tracks are erased completely. She has pushed as much as she dares against Anya's leash for now, and she knows that crossing certain lines would earn her swift punishment.

The older warrior knows that at her age she would have questioned too, but she cannot afford to be soft. Her time with Tris is limited, and the child does not yet understand that a good leader has to adapt her choices to the greater good sometimes, and that tradition should be a guide and not a shackle on someone's will. The Commander would understand and probably choose as she has. Then again Lexa had always been willing to walk on roads untrodden by her predecessors.

Her quarry stirs and moans, and Anya quickly places a hand on her chest to hold her still, lest she hurts herself in her trashing. She does not wake and, even through layers of cloth, Anya feels the heat coming off her body in waves. She is caught in a fever dream and she tosses again, and strains against her touch.

With her free hand, she reaches for a pouch at her waist and removes a vial, filled to the brim with a clear, viscous fluid. When she unstoppers it, the pungent scent of garlic and white musk tickles her nose. It reminds her of Regan and the long afternoons they spent in the woods as children, as she was learning the hunt and he which herbs cured ailments and which ones could kill a man. Bitterness fills her a she remembers how she failed him, failed them all, and she pushes it aside, as her chance of redemption lays dying at her feet.

In the uncertain light of the ebbing flames, she runs her fingers along the girl's wound, as Regan had taught her in what seems like another life. They come back clean and she exhales in relief. The blood flow is staunched and with luck her ministrations will be enough to save the stranger. She is no healer, but she has been in the heat of battle enough times to know how to treat cuts. Anyway, the girl has done most of the job herself. Anya coats her fingers with the salve, then gently applies it in thick layers on the girl's thigh, before recovering a strip of linen from the same pouch the vial came from.

As she works, the wolves’ dirge fills the air and she knows they have the scent of blood in them, and that they will soon track the girl to this place. When she is satisfied that the medication will hold she stands, kicking dirt over the fire and plunging the narrow glade into darkness. The moon is rising and her eyes adapt quickly to the dark; the shape of the forest emerging slowly from the solid blackness, tinged with silver and dancing shadows.

She picks a few rocks and arranges them on the ground in a deliberate design. Tris will understand where to find them, and Anya thinks with pragmatism that the night has turned into another test for her pupil. It remains to be seen if she has trained the girl to follow them better than the wolves will hunt her.

With a sigh she gathers the injured girl into her arms, dangling head nestled in the crook of her neck and she feels her soft breathing warm her skin. With one last look at the clearing, she turns, and the darkness and the rising fog close around her, as she sets a ground-eating pace towards shelter.

 

* * *

 

 

_The forest is too quiet around Clarke and she feels like all sound has been sucked away into a vacuum. She looks around, and cannot determine what time of day it is, as light seems to come from everywhere and nowhere at the same time. She is lost, the ground around her unfamiliar. As she walks, her fingers trail against the high grass, and she presses hands to hard bark and cold stone. The forest feels real enough, yet gravel that should crunch underfoot makes no sound and everything seems inert, devoid of life._

_Anguish clutches her chest at the thought that she is alone, the last living thing to breathe, and roam the land without a purpose, doomed to eternally look for her kin over the next horizon. She wants to voice her sorrow, but when she opens her mouth, nothing comes out..._

...In a different moment, the girl thrashes against her chest and Anya has to stop for a while, setting her down on the mossy ground. She presses the back of her hand to the girl's forehead. She is burning up, the skin pulled tight against her skull by the fever. Anya splashes some water from a canteen onto her hand, and washes the girl's face gently. She is so hot that the moisture is gone almost immediately. The girl moans against her hand and Anya croons softly until she is quiet again, then picks her up, ignoring the protests of aching muscles, and resumes the march.

_The mountain looms ominously over her all of a sudden. At first it was distant, no bigger than a speck of black against the gray sky, but it resolves out of the murkiness, shrouded in swirling mists and sighing trees. Clarke glimpses a structure at the top, concrete and iron, out of place in such a wild land, but it is gone when her eyes leave it, so quickly she convinces herself she must have imagined it._

“ _To go any further, means death,” the softest murmur behind her makes her turn so fast the forest seems to vanish in a blur and, when her eyes refocus, a woman is standing in front of her._

_Clarke gasps in surprise and takes a step back, her hand dropping to the weapon at her waist. The sheath is empty._

_The woman regards her impassively, forest green eyes giving away nothing. She is commanding, her figure imposing, yet Clarke believes she can see tenderness stir beneath the emerald surface of her gaze. The newcomer is dressed like a warrior in leather and chain mail, a red veil framing her face, all the more vivid amid the grayness. Her eyes are circled by wings of war paint the color of ash, cruel looking swords peek over her shoulders and Clarke thinks she should flee, but is rooted to the spot as if struck by lightning. She feels like she is bridging the sky above and the earth below her feet, and together with this woman she is the key to everything._

_She feels sparks fill the air between them, clashing and mating like the cells in her body, and the pull of inevitable gravity where every choice leads to this woman and a shared path._

_The stranger closes the distance between them and takes her hand._

“ _You are dying,” she says. It is a statement tinged with regret, and Clarke nods her understanding._

_The warrior's clothes change, shimmering like a mirage and suddenly she is wearing a soft, laced shirt that leaves her shoulders bare and her hair cascade down her back and Clarke feels the sudden, inexplicable urge to run her hands through that wavy, brown mass, and pull her into the circle of her arms. Her whole body quickens almost violently and she knows she has never seen a wilder creature, or one more beautiful._

_The woman untangles their hands and when Clarke follows her gaze downward, she sees a weeping wound open on her stomach. She reaches out without thought, her fingers instantly colored with blood the shade of midnight._

“ _I do not want you to die,” she blurts out, bitter tears stinging her eyes._

“ _Then live,” the woman tells her simply. There is no reproach in her voice, no apparent pain in her eyes, but Clarke knows that to lose her would be like losing all the stars in the firmament. The thought of such an eternal night, fills her with dread._

“ _I don't know how,” she answers, pleadingly._

“ _You must find a reason to live,” the woman's features seem to run like molten wax and from where she stood, the wolf leaps forward._

_Clarke falls backwards into nothing, the beast’s maws filling her vision as it rips her throat out._

 

* * *

 

 

Abby’s sigh echoes in the empty med bay, and she pushes back from her desk, slumped with weariness. She has made it a habit, not to return to her quarters at night. Everything there reminds her of those she has lost. She cannot even bear to look at Clarke’s sketchbooks without losing the little control she has managed to restore on her emotions.

When it became clear, she could not stand to live there any longer, she had packed a few things and permanently moved to the medical facilities. She gets the sleep she can on empty cots, and Jackson brings her rations when she forgets to eat.

She stands stiffly, massaging the small of her back with a groan. She takes a few steps to work blood back into her limbs, as she feels the needle of immobility prick her skin, and tries to give her mind a few moments of rest. The files she has been examining will still be waiting for her in a few minutes.

The door opens and Jackson steps inside, balancing two cups and some rations on a plastic tray. He walks up to her desk and nudges several data-pads out of the way, setting his burden down with a disapproving frown in her direction.

“You forgot to eat, _again_.”

She knows better than to argue with him, especially when he is right, and she nods gratefully as she wraps cold fingers around one of the steaming cups. She takes a sip of what passes for caffeine on the Ark and grimaces. She doesn’t even want to think which ingredients Nygel brews it from, but the result must be as vile as the woman herself.

“Is he still outside?” she inquires, as she picks at her rations without appetite. Jackson just looks at her until she gives in, and pops some food into her mouth.

“He is, as usual.”

It seems like everywhere she goes, Marcus follows like a second shadow. She did not underestimate the not so veiled threat, when he told her she would be watched, but she did not think he would make it his only task to trail her around the station.

“Should we invite him for dinner?” she thinks maybe it’s part of her coping mechanism, but she finds herself more and more prone to cutting sarcasm.

Jackson guffaws as he sips his drink and has to cough several times, before he is able to reply.

“I doubt he would accept.” He manages drily, dabbing at the _kaf_ dribbling down his chin with the edge of a sleeve.

They let the quiet settle around them, a shared moment of rest between two friends, never awkward, only peaceful. Then inevitably, as Abby knew he would, Jackson picks up the flat screen remote, and brings up the files she was reviewing on the wall-mounted monitor.

The faces and medical data of the Delinquents, stream by and he watches silenty for a while, before he finds the words to voice his thoughts.

“So much wasted potential,” his eyes are sad, “sometimes I wish our rules weren’t so harsh.” He trails off, and casts her a wary look, knowing he is stepping into dangerous waters.

“You know they are necessary,” she replies, forcing herself to inject conviction into her words. No matter how hard she tries, they sound like a poor rehearsal. Jackson is right, she can see the embryonic possibilities in each of those pair of eyes. She has caught a glimpse of her daughter’s dreams when she herself was in confinement, and wonders now at which talents hide inside these kids. Their loss will be an irreparable damage to the Ark; young, bright minds wasted, mostly for minor infractions that could be dealt with differently.

Abby inhales sharply as the solution she has been seeking for many sleepless nights, finally forms into her mind, and sits forward, eyes never leaving the screen.

“What is it, Abby?”

She just looks at the screen, and the accusing eyes of Octavia Blake stare right back at her. The reason for her incarceration touches Abby deepest amongst them all. She is in jail for being _born_ , never having been given the chance to know what freedom is.

Her resolve hardens, as she wows to give that kid and all of the others a chance. It may be a desperate one, but it _is_ better than nothing. She is all too aware that the same train of thought brought about Clarke's death.

“Abby?” Jackson must have seen the shadow pass on her face.

“I am all right,” she answers quietly, “maybe I should sleep a little.” She pushes the half eaten rations away, her brain already drawing up new plans and possibilities. He stands, a serious expression plastered on his features.

“Promise you will.”

She sighs, “I am ok Jackson, really.”

“You must have not looked at a mirror recently,” he grumbles, but his manner eases as gathers the tray and the now empty cups.

“I'll trash this. Sleep well.” She wishes it was that easy.

After he is gone, she sits there for a while, letting the quiet fill her, numb the pain a little. The Ark is alive around her, in the beeping of machinery and the sigh of recycled air from the vents. When her heart and her mind are still and filled with clarity, she strides to the door and opens it, letting the light from within spill out onto the darkened corridor.

“Marcus,” she calls softly, “we need to talk.”

There is a rustling sound to her right, then a shadow detaches itself from the darkness and he strides forward. His eyes are piercing and hard, and never leave hers. She turns, sure he will follow, and neither of them feels Diana Sidney's cold stare as it follows them until they disappear from view.

 

* * *

 

 

Clarke wakes with a gasp and brings a hand to her throat, her mind full of blood and pain as her fingers meet unbroken skin. She feels a wail build up inside her, as the remnants of her nightmare's barbs tighten their hold on her, but before a sound can escape her she feels a body straddle hers and a vicious hand cover her mouth, muffling her scream. The grip is iron-hard and her teeth _click_ together sharply with the pressure. A faint glint catches her attention, then the cold of sharp metal bites the flesh of her cheek, just below her eye. The knife's tip digs into her skin and breaks it. A single droplet of crimson, which appears black in the night's non-light stains the steel.

She stills completely, and after a few moments, both the hand and the blade are removed. The weight that held her down disappears, and a shadow hides the faint light of the moon. Dark, unfeeling eyes meet hers and seem to gather the light, the promise of danger they hold almost beautiful. Clarke thinks she is at the presence of a wolf that took human form as she feels the potential for sudden violence she faced in the beast that attacked her, coiled tight, ready to be released with a simple thought.

She pushes up slowly on her elbows, meeting the feral gaze with her own and half expecting to be pushed back down at any moment.

“ _Drein daun,”_ a hand extends towards her, holding a flask. Clarke hears liquid sloshing inside, and becomes aware of how dry her mouth feels. She knows she should be terrified, but her body's needs prevail on reason.

She takes the offered water gratefully, and tilts her head, taking great gulps. A few rivulets snake down her chin, into her collar. The water is so cold it makes her throat ache. It is delicious.

“ _Choj op,”_ a small bundle is thrown down next to her and she unfolds it, finding pieces of still warm meat inside. She does not understand the words, but the message is quite clear. She sets down the jug and watches the stranger, the woman, collect it, then the smell of food overcomes her and she bites into the meal with relish, a half moan of pleasure escaping her lips.

Fat and juices smear her mouth and her cheeks as she eats, and she thinks she may be giving quite a show. She cannot see the woman's face clearly, but detects amusement in the set of her shoulders.

“ _Ai laik Anya kom Trikru, chon yu bilaik?”_

Clarke swallows as her brow furrows. She doesn't understand the meaning of every word, but thinks Anya must be the woman's name.

“I am Clarke,” she ventures, “I am sorry, I do not speak your language.”

“ _Klark,”_ Anya reaches a hand towards her, and taps two fingers on her injured cheek. Clarke bites her lip not to wince. “ _Klark_ ,” she repeats, rolling her name around her mouth. Her voice is soft and melodious, at odds with the danger she oozes, yet Clarke detects a deeper tone to it, almost a growl.

“Do not worry,” Anya resumes and Clarke's eyes widen slightly,” I speak yours.”

She turns her face slightly and the moonlight lines her features. Clarke swears she can see the ghost of a smile on her lips, but maybe it is a trick of the shadows.

Anya gestures to the bone she still holds. Only a few bits of meat, too sinewy to chew, remain. She hadn't realized she had kept eating during their exchange. Still she picks at it and rips one last morsel away with her teeth.

“It is from the wolf you killed. Good, no?”

The meat turns to ash in her mouth and Clarke's stomach rolls with sickness. She is about to spit it out, then she sees Anya lean slightly forward, as if that's exactly what she expects her to do.

She grins around the piece of meat, then swallows it, pointedly licking her fingers clean.

“It was,” she throws the bone down, “do you have any more?”

The woman is silent, and Clarke wonders if coyness was the right thing to show, then she sees Anya's shoulders shake in silent mirth.

“You still have fire in you. It will serve you well,” she pauses, then adds, “if it lasts.”

She stretches, then motions for Clarke to lay back down.

“You should rest,” she suggests, “we move out at dawn.” At the mention of walking, Clarke's thigh throbs, and she feels all the weariness she thought gone when she woke, return with a vengeance.

“And what if I can't walk?” she waits for a reply, as her eyelids grow heavy with sleep. None comes, bar the soft _whisk-whisk_ of a whetstone scraping on steel.

 

* * *

 

 

She wakes up to a booted foot tapping insistently against her ribs.

“ _Gyon op,”_ Anya offers a hand and Clarke grasps it, hauling herself to her feet, sore muscles taking some time to catch up with her intentions. The woman, a warrior judging from her attire, steadies her with strong, yet not unkind hands on her shoulders. When she is convinced Clarke is not about to topple over, she gives her a little push.

“Put weight on the leg.” Clarke chafes at the obvious order, but complies, understanding that meekness may be the best way to stay alive for now. She glances down to where the gash should be, and sees her leg has been bandaged. She touches the paste that has seeped through the linen, and spreads it on the tips of her fingers before bringing them to her nose. Hannah Green used to grow some garlic on Farm Station, but not this strong. Her eyes fill with tears, but she takes another sniff, wondering at the other scent. Her leg doesn't hurt nearly as much as she expects it to, when she tests its resistance.

When she lifts her gaze, Anya is watching her intently and whispers a word, too quietly for her to understand. She has a look in her eyes of someone who has finally found what they had been looking for after an arduous search.

In the growing light of the morning, Clarke can take a better look at her. She is a palm taller than her, with a long, patrician face, framed by locks the color of honey. Sun rays filter through the tree canopy and set sparks of fire in her hair. Her eyes are dark pools, lined with black paint, and Clarke is reminded of the drawings of amazon warriors her father showed her when she was a child.

Anya has that same countenance, wild and fierce, yet wise beyond her years. She takes both her hands in hers, and Clarke sees the rope for the first time, and understand she is a prisoner. Anya binds her wrists, the knots do not give when Clarke tries to force them apart, but the woman could have tightened the string to hurt her, and she hasn't.

Anya holds the other end of the rope and she tugs it once, signaling they will move out.

“ _Shof op nau.”_

Clarke realizes that if she listens carefully, some of the words start to make sense, as they connect to sounds she has heard all of her life. When she keeps quiet and follows in Anya's footsteps, she sees the woman nod to herself.

The woods around them are vibrant with life, the sky slowly turning from gray, to pink, to light blue. The sun gives everything a golden hue, and glistening dew adorns every leaf and turns it into a jewel.

Wisps of lifting fog curl around their legs as they move, and Clarke shivers, as the damp chills her skin.

Suddenly Anya lifts a hand, commanding a stop, and crouches low. Clarke has heard nothing, but edges close and gets down next to her, hiding a pained grimace when the crust on her wound tears with the movement.

A young girl breaks away from the cover of the bushes in front of them and runs up to Anya, throwing a disdainful look in Clarke's direction.

“ _Tona gapa raun,”_ she says breathlessly.

“ _Azgeda,”_ Anya hisses, and it sounds like a curse.

She turns to Clarke, face unreadable. “Enemies of my clan. They are close. They will be upon us soon.”

“I can walk faster,” the fear of being left behind, alone again, suddenly bubbles up inside her, ”run if I have to.”

Anya seems to consider her words for an eternity, then her arm flashes towards her, and Clarke does not see the dagger's hilt until it connects with her temple, and the lights go out.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRANSLATIONS:
> 
> Oso gaf dina: we need food  
> Ait: all right  
> Nau: now  
> Drein daun: drink  
> Choj op: eat  
> Chon yu bilaik: who are you  
> Gyon op: get up  
> Shof op nau: be quiet now  
> Tona gapa raun: many horses nearby  
> Azgeda: Ice Nation


	5. Insurance Policy/ Bait/ Homecoming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Abigail strikes a dangerous deal with Marcus, sacrificing everything she stands for to gain his support. Meanwhile on the ground Clarke has been abandoned by Anya and her ward, and the Azgeda patrol catches up to her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am having a blast writing Anya. I hope you enjoy the way I depict her. 
> 
> As usual more details have been thrown into the mix, so if you find any mistakes, please let me know and I will fix them!
> 
> Thank you to everyone reading, kudos and comments are not only treasured, but polished to a mirror sheen.

“ _A man with a club is a law-maker, a man to be obeyed, but not necessarily conciliated.”_

Jack London –  _The Call Of The Wild_

 

Abby’s soft call does not take him by surprise. He is aware that she knows he has been watching. He _wants_ her to know. Maybe she has escaped floating, and her standing is intact in Thelonious’ eyes, but Marcus is sure she is guilty. He wants her to know that her every action will be weighted and measured, and that one day there will be retribution.

He steps into the infirmary and his gaze is instantly drawn to the screens, full of the pictures and medical data of the Delinquents.

“Is this about the quarantine?” he inquires, “I thought you had that nasty flu, or whatever it was, under control.”

Abby sits down at her desk and motions him to take the opposite seat. As he does, Marcus reflects that these past few days have not been kind to her. Deep, black circles surround her eyes and new lines of sorrow draw her mouth downward, in a permanent half grimace. He can tell she has been crying again; he hears her desperate sobs every night as he stands guard in the corridor outside, before she succumbs to a restless sleep.

The most cynical part of him feels she has brought the grief upon herself, yet he does not have children and it must be horrible to survive your own blood and see every aspiration you had for them turn to ashes along with their bones. He knows there is an emptiness inside Abigail now that she will never be able to fill. He doesn’t recall ever experiencing such despair: when his father died he was too young to understand, and when he finally did, the training to become a Guard involved him so completely he did not find it in him to properly mourn a man he barely remembered.

He guesses he missed having a father growing up in a dull way, like the ache of a muscle that is seldom used. He knows though, that his mother suffered immensely and sought refuge in her religious beliefs and in teaching the little ones. He agrees with Nygel that watering the tree is a waste of water, but the dream of witnessing the return to the ground gives his mother strength, and people must find purpose where they can.

He used to tend the tree himself as a child, but rarely visits Vera and never attends the ceremonies anymore. It was certainly a less complicated time back then.

“Marcus, you are staring,” Abby’s chiding voice jolts him back to the here and now, “do I really look that awful?”

“Yes…no…I mean…” he falters, hating that way she has of upsetting his balance with the most casual of observations. She always could, even when they were growing up. He thought for a time it was her way of hinting that she liked him, but then she chose Jake. He wonders if his resentment is so strong because of that, but quashes the stray thought; she is dangerous because she thinks with her heart. He doesn’t believe empathy is a luxury the Council can afford. He has always been convinced she denounced Jake to Thelonious because she was sure his oldest friend would make him see reason. He remembers the astonished look of betrayal and hurt in her eyes when he was floated.

She laughs, the veil of sadness lifting for a moment, “I guess I know who to come to for the hard truths.” Her expressions returns serious, ”the epidemic  _is_ under control. The last symptomatic patient was John Murphy and he started getting better yesterday. You can lift the cordon by the end of the week.” 

“Then why are you reviewing the files?” He leans back, curious.

“The Culling.”

Again she takes him by surprise. He has been advocating that a population reduction is necessary since it became apparent the faults discovered by Jake could not be fixed before their oxygen supply ran out, but she has been his strenuous opponent since the first time he brought it up with the Council, and somehow has managed to drag Jaha and half the others along.

One of the charts on the monitor, depicting how much air would be saved, if the prisoners were removed from the Ark, clicks into place, like the piece of a puzzle.

His eyes scan the numbers quickly, but before he reaches the end of the document, he is already shaking his head.

“It only would buy us an extra month of air, Abby,” he says, assuming she means to sacrifice the kids to give Engineering more time to fix life support, “even if I ordered them floated tonight. And you know as well as I that some of the minor offences would be pardoned upon review. Not many,” he concedes thoughtfully, “but enough to cause a riot if we ignore our own rules.”

She just watches him, waiting for the inevitable question she glimpses in his eyes.

“Why have you changed your mind, all of a sudden?”

She sighs. She seems disappointed in him, and for some reason the thought hurts a little, “I wanted to see if you could even imagine a different approach, but it seems I have overestimated you.”

He stands, pointing at the screen angrily. “A different approach?” he barks, “your problem Abigail is you cannot  _stomach_ the only logical one!” 

“So few of us remain,” she counters, a furious conviction giving her words a cutting edge, ”that I find it insane to reduce that number even further. Your problem Marcus, is you lack imagination.”

“My mother has all the imagination I’ll ever need,” he replies, surprising himself with his own vehemence “and look what good it does to her. Look what imagination got your husband into.”

The sound of the chair scraping back is all the warning he gets, before feeling the sting of Abby’s slap on his cheek.

He watches warily as she fights to get her rage under control, her arm half raised as if she is considering hitting him again. He could have her shock lashed for this, but then discards the idea. He doubts it would have any effect beyond immediate pain and, he reluctantly admits, he deserves it.

Marcus sits back down, rubbing at the sore spot on his face.

“”If you didn’t call me here to agree with me on what’s necessary to save us, then why exactly am I here?”

She eyes him suspiciously, as if she expects another low blow and he can’t blame her. Thelonious’ words at the end of the last meeting echo in his mind. They cannot afford division at a time like this. The man has a point, so Marcus vows to shelf his enmity towards Abigail long enough to hear her out.

“Please Abigail,” he grits his teeth, “I am sorry.” He is sorry she trusted them enough to warn them about Jake’s plan, and not enough to truly understand there was no other way to silence her husband. He is sorry her own actions killed her daughter; Clarke would have died regardless, but it would have been his responsibility to carry out the sentence and at least she would have had someone else to hate for it instead of herself.

She sits back down and runs a hand through her hair. She has never looked so tired to him as she does now.

“What if the engineers cannot repair life support in the time we’d buy them with the Culling? What do we do then? Do we keep on killing people to save air?”

He opens his mouth to reply, then closes it. He has no answer for her, except that he trusts Sinclair’s projections and he won’t contemplate failure. He realizes how tenuous that sounds as doubt worms its way into him. What if Abby’s worst case scenario becomes more than a fatalistic prediction? When does an extreme measure to save humankind, turn into genocide? And who gets to draw the line?

She sees all these thoughts, swirl behind his pretense at coolness and continues.

“How many accidents do you think we could stage to cover cullings, before people stopped accepting our explanations and started asking questions? Before they'd wonder how the people were picked? I don't have to tell you that some workers think the people here in Alpha Station are privileged. We could have a mutiny.”

Marcus nods warily. Thanks to people like Diana Sidney the Ark population is far from the picture of unity Thelonious dreams of. The other points Abby is raising have been discussed at length by the Council. A few had even voiced the thought that maybe Jake had been right in believing people would rise to the situation, and that they'd volunteer for the Culling if it was properly presented. He is not so naive; sacrifice is only easy when it is a distant thought in a hypothetical discussion. A properly staged mechanical failure would achieve the same results, and be far easier to control.

“What if the solution isn't fixing the Ark,” Abby holds his gaze and he feels almost enthralled by her dark eyes, “but rather leaving it?”

He inhales so sharply the air whistles between his teeth. “You want to send the kids to the ground.” The charts on the screen suddenly make perfect sense.

Her suggestion gives him pause. The Ark is a technological marvel and someone could assume their predecessors had thought of a way to get readings of the ground, but Marcus knows none of the stations were designed to keep humanity alive.

The machinery around them was forced into the role by circumstances, the few remnants of their race pushed together by tragedy, rather than a common intent, at least in the beginning. They all know that some divisions still remain, even if almost a century has passed since the bombs fell.

Everyone has been so focused on keeping the Ark functional in this interval of time, that they have mostly disregarded the ground below, as the end of a journey that would fall to the next generation, or the one after that. They have concentrated so many resources on the daily maintenance that all they get from below are basic weather readings. Marcus' mind goes back to the hundreds of gigabytes of data he and the Council have sifted through when the life support malfunction manifested, and he remembers some of the earlier weather readings.

Never ending storms, tornadoes, sudden droughts. He knows now that the weather is calmer, and a part of him wants to believe, like Abby seems to do, that it is an indication the Earth is survivable again.

“We'd need to use one of the Exodus Ships, and find some way to monitor them,” he says slowly, his mind spinning with possibilities, “but if you are wrong they will all die.”

“If I am right we may all live,” her voice is gentler now, cajoling “how many times can we repair the Ark, before we can fix it no longer?”

Marcus stand abruptly. He feels almost dizzy with the import of her words. If she is right they could return _home_. He knows this malfunction is just the most fatal, but neither the first nor the last. Maybe the next one will be something not even Sinclair can fix.

“And if you are wrong?” he walks to the monitor and taps his finger on its surface lightly, “the air we'd save isn't remotely enough for the engineers to get the problem sorted.”

Abby stands and walks to him, and they stand side by side for a long, silent moment, before she answers.

“If I am wrong, I will support the Population Reduction Plan.”

Marcus grunts and has to hide a half smirk of satisfaction. He had not expected her to offer so much. Either way, it is a good bargain, and it gets him a step closer to Jaha's seat in the process.

“Present the idea to the Council Abby,” he offers his hand, ”I will support it.” She grasps his wrist as they seal their pact and smiles up at him, but the smile doesn't reach her eyes. He can understand; she is sacrificing everything she has stood for in a risky gamble. It's something he can admire.

“I will leave you to rest,” he adds, then walks away without waiting for a reply. When he is outside, he leans against the closed door for a moment, his hand patting his pocket, making sure the memory spools he recovered from the launch bay are still there.

His jaw cracks with a yawn and he knows he should take his own advice and go to sleep for a few hours, but Sinclair's shift starts soon and perhaps he will be able to catch the man before he gets to his work station.

He had planned to use the data that may be recoverable differently, but this turn of events requires him to adapt his actions. He is sure he has a winning hand, and he never considered himself above blackmailing. He yawns again and sighs as his body aches for his bunk. He will sleep, but first he will make sure Abby keeps the word she just gave him.

* * *

 

 

A wave of nausea hits her as the smell of dirt and rotten leaves fills her nose. Her blue eyes are slits of pain, and the glare of the sun as she forces them open stabs like a hot iron. She groans, and tries to move, her tied hands achingly buried between her own body and the ground, the rope digging into her flesh, but all she manages to do is scrape her cheeks on rocks and bits of bark as her face presses to the soil further.

A rhythmic sound comes to her ears, the earth gently vibrating with it. It has the cadence of a drumbeat, but Anya's words flash through her fogged consciousness and she remembers what she said about horsemen nearby. She also remembers, as panic seizes her by the throat, that the woman called them enemies.

Clarke wills herself to stillness, slows her breathing, commands her muscles to relax, and as she does, she feels the weight of her knife between her fingers. She struggles not to laugh at the insanity of the situation. Anya saved her, then abandoned her, but at least she left her the knife.

The first horseman comes into view, a tall beast of a man, garbed in well oiled chain mail and furs. His dirty blonde hair fall in thin tresses down to his shoulders, and his wild beard fails to hide the cruel cast of his mouth.

Her half closed eyes seem to be able to take in every detail with utter clarity, and they linger on the wicked half ax swinging from a loop on the saddle.

Two more such warriors follow him, different in appearance and armor but united by the air of barely restrained savagery that seems to cloak them. The first one, the leader Clarke thinks, raises a mailed fist and they stop, piercing glares scanning the forest for threats, while he cautiously nudges his mount forward.

She holds her breath as he dismounts and slowly approaches her. She prays she looks dead, that he will decide she is not worth more than a cursory glance and leave.

He goes down on a knee next to her, and when she feels a rough hand grasp her shoulder, she knows her prayers went unanswered. He pushes and flips her on her back, and that is when their eyes meet, and his widen as he sees the blade that was concealed under her, for the first time. She sees his mouth drop open, ready to yell a warning and her mind goes blank as she surges ruthlessly upward and slams the knife in the soft meat below his chin, where the armor he wears doesn't protect him.

He gurgles, and rivulets of scarlet appear at the corners of his mouth,. Her grip on the weapon's hilt is so tight that when he slowly folds backwards, she is pulled along by his weight and ends up slammed on top of him.

She feels his last rattling breath caress her cheek, the pierced muscles in his throat convulse and he spits out a fat glob of blood. It sprays into her eyes, her nose, her mouth and Clarke frantically rolls off him with a choked sob.

The other warriors scream and spur their horses forward, steel tipped lances falling parallel to the ground as they couch the spears to strike her down.

An arrow sprouts from the chest of the closest one and he topples forward, his hand tangling into the reins and pulling the horse off to Clarke's side. The animal rushes by her and the wind from its gallop slaps her face. She sees the warrior being dragged by as she blinks blood away from her eyes. His expression is one of utter surprise.

The last man wickedly pulls his mount short, and the horse rears back with a pained whinny, spraying leaves and churned earth all around. He guides it into a tight circle, gaze searching every shadow, then curses loudly and with one last malevolent look at Clarke, spurs the animal in the opposite direction. An arrow zips in from the side and pierces his thigh, and the horse's meat beneath.

The animal takes a tottering step forwards, then a second arrow joins the first and brings it down. It collapses to the side with an all too human shriek, half burying the pinned rider underneath. The man's screams join with the horse's, then Tris steps into Clarke's view and, with deliberate plunges of a short sword, silences both.

Clarke meets her eyes, then looks down at the man she has just killed and half digested morsels of wolf rush up her throat in a scalding flood. She spews them out and they fall in a stream to the ground, bitter tears following suit.

* * *

 

 

Anya watches the girl splash water onto her face. It drips away pink with the blood of the Azgeda man she has killed.

She stands from her crouch and walks to her, holding a piece of cloth they have found in the man's saddlebags. They have been lucky. The two remaining horses had not wandered far from the ambush's spot, and the trail of crushed undergrowth they left had been easy to follow. She had taken one, hoisting a shock-numbed Clarke on the saddle before her, while Tris took the other, and they had covered enough ground that she felt they could safely set up camp, and rest for a few hours.

They were deeper in _Trikru_ land now and no Azgeda patrol would dare follow so far. The Ice Queen may be testing the boundaries of her newly minted oath to the Commander, but she would not risk an outright war. Not unless she was sure of winning it. Anya could see the day would come, but it would not be this day, or the next.

“Let me,” her voice is soothing, and she sits next to Clarke slowly, every movement cautious as if she was approaching a startled animal. She thinks with an inner smile that the comparison is accurate: the girl's blue gaze follows her hand as it dips the cloth in the water and then presses it to her brow, softly scraping the dried blood away.

She feels her relax slightly into her touch, but a wariness lingers in the set of her shoulders, as if she is ready to try and flee at any moment.

“You did well,” Anya murmurs as she cleans the cut on Clarke's cheek. She sees pain flash in her eyes, then they turn into blue chips of ice and the girl doesn't protest or flinch away.

“Wouldn't a willing bait have tipped the odds more in your favor?”

Normally Anya would not explain herself, but she thinks that since the girl has shown some of her mettle, it is a good time as any to start teaching her. She is not young and has a lot to learn in a short time.

“I didn't know what the odds were until only three riders appeared. Tris said there were more, so if all had come, we would be gone and you would be dead.”

Clarke swallows and says nothing, and Anya lets the cruelty of the world that surrounds them sink in, driving the lesson home. There is iron within this one, but the core is soft enough it can be shaped before it is hardened. She also detects a stubborn streak that reminds her of Lexa, and knows the task will be hard, but she has never shied away from a challenge.

The grime and gore are mostly gone from the girl's face and Anya lets her hand drop away. Clarke closes her eyes for a moment and sighs, fingers tracing the clean skin.

“Thank you.”

The warrior stands and offers her hand. The blue in the girl's eyes softens a fraction aa she grips her fingers and her head bows in acceptance. Of her help or the overall situation, Anya cannot tell.

* * *

 

 

Much later they are mounted again, and the slow plodding of the horse lulls Clarke in and out of a light sleep. Whenever her head lolls back, she feels Anya's arms tighten around her. She should be angry, but all she feels is a tired resignation and a reluctant understanding for the warrior's decision.

She was a liability, she still is in a way although perhaps a little less. These women that have grown up waging war and becoming fearsome killers consider her soft, expendable. She has tried to stoke her anger, and fault them for seemingly leaving her behind, but the coals of her rage have dampened quickly to ash. They share no bond of blood and feel no loyalty to Clarke. To them and this world she has little value, and if she wants to survive, it is up to her to change that.

Maybe she has started down that road, she thinks, as Tris edges her horse in front, following Anya's order. The girl looks at her and, for the first time, contempt mingles with a fleeting shadow of respect in her gaze.

Clarke knows the coming days will be hard for her, that they may even break her, but her mind is too tired to harbor such thoughts for long, and she feels her eyes start to close again as her body relaxes in Anya's hold.

The warrior chuckles quietly in her ear as she feels her slip, and pulls her tighter against her chest.

“Look,” her voice is a whisper in Clarke's ear, but enough to rouse her, “this is my home.”

There is pride in her voice and affection and Clarke leans forward, to take in the view in the evening's lengthening shadows. A narrow vale opens below the path they are following, and she can spot a few fires, as the rising breeze brings her the smell of smoke and the laughter of children. The glow of the flames is the only sign that there are houses down there, as they are crafted to merge with the forest around them, camouflaged in the same patterns and colors of the woods.

Her gaze travels upwards, past the snow tipped mountains, to the sky and the first stars blinking into existence in the darkening sky. She feels loneliness seize her at the thought that one of those distant lights may be the Ark, and the hole left by the loss of her mother, that the fight for survival had hidden from view, yawns bottomless in front of her. She wants to believe Abby is still alive, but knows she must have been floated for breaking her out of the Sky Box.

She stiffens and feels Anya's kind hand on her arm. Clarke wonders, not for the first time, how this fierce woman can be capable of such tender gestures.

“It can be your home too,” the warrior says, as if sensing her sorrow. Her voice quivers slightly with an unspoken question, as if she isn't sure that Clarke will accept the offered sanctuary, and the girl perceives the same hope behind her words, she saw in her eyes when Anya watched her examine her wound in the morning.

She finds herself incapable of speaking, as the emotions raging inside render her mute, but nods warily and for the first time since she woke to this strange land, she does not feel so hopeless.

 

 


	6. Wash Away Your Sins/ Close To The Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anya offers shelter to Clarke, but Tris doesn't seem as accepting. The warrior leader and the sky girl are both haunted by the past. Will the rest of the clan welcome the newcomer? Clarke may have reached her destination, but her journey is far from over - sky and ground meet inside her, and she needs to find a way to balance both.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my favorite chapter so far. It was draining and harrowing. It speaks to me deeply. I hope you will feel the same. 
> 
> The story will focus more on the Grounders' side of things for a while, with some flashes of the Ark here and there. I hope you do not mind and, will stick with me as I explore Clarke's life in Anya's clan, and their evolving relationship. 
> 
> Kudos and comments mean an awful lot, and I am thankful to everyone that is taking the time to read my work. I hope I am doing a good job and I hope you will tell me your thoughts. As usual if you spot any errors, sound off in the comments. I am off to sleep after this- much like poor Clarke.
> 
> EDIT: now that I haave a clear head, an extra word on Anya and Clarke. I have read somewhere that in a life you can meet plenty of soulmates, but only one person can be the Northern Star that guides you home. Lexa is Clarke's guiding star but Anya's soul will definitely be close to her heart as well. It is a different kind of love which may or may not lead to intimate moments and both of them will be united in their will to protect Lexa. Whatever happens it will be coherent with the overall plot. I don't push my characters where they don't wish to go. I let them grow their own way.
> 
> I have gotten some questions so I figured I'd be a bit clearer on this

“ _Food and fire,_ _protection and companionshi_ p, _were some of the things he received from the god.”_

Jack London- _White Fang_

 

The children Clarke had heard as they descended towards the village, trot along with the horses, laughing and waving up at Anya and Tris. They look at Clarke with wide, curious eyes, point at her and whisper to each other excitedly.

Some of the adults look at her too, but their gazes are distant and guarded, if not exactly hostile. The warriors nod as their leader passes, some touching fist to heart in salute and the rest of the villagers almost double over in their bows of obeisance.

Still, Clarke can tell that such displays are voluntary, as the warrior leader in the saddle behind her commands great respect, and she sees the prideful, assured way these people move about their day. The warriors in particular impress her. She has seen Anya and Tris in action, and knows what they are capable of, but what strikes her the most, is the familiar way these men and women mingle with the people they are sworn to protect.

She remembers all too well what the general sentiment is towards the Guard up on the Ark. Those black clad sentinels are more feared than respected, to the point that a lot of people think twice about going to them for help. She has heard of Guards using their status to bully civilians or get extra rations, and while things may not be as bad as the rumor mill makes them, the feeling of distrust has grown over the years, creating a deep groove between the protectors and the protected.

Dusk is settling in, and where the houses are built under the trees, it is already full dark. As they pass by, Clarke watches what she believes a blacksmith. bank the furnace’s coals for the night. Elsewhere, women and men alike are hanging small oil lamps outside their doors. The little flames brighten the night merrily, and some of the lamps are decked with little screens of cloth, so that the light turns red, or green or another myriad colors.

Some people are gathering the children around outside fires; the air is chilly with the first touches of what she believes to be autumn, but not so much to discourage the families from gathering for dinner under a deep purple sky already full of stars.

Clarke feels more of the sadness she is trying to keep at bay seep through her defenses and turns her gaze from mothers pulling kids apart from friends and carefree play to sit them long enough to sit them down and make sure they will be fed. She wants to fill herself with those sights, but is too afraid the tears will come and never stop, if she does.

At approximately this time of the night, she would be cleaning up her mother’s instruments, sharing a joke or two with Jackson, before wolfing down her food. On her time in the Sky Box, or the evenings spent with her father and their endless games of chess, she does not dwell.

“You are welcome under my roof,” Anya murmurs quietly, proving yet again an eerie ability to discern Clarke’s emotions from the involuntary clenching and release of her limbs, or the cast of her shoulders.

Tris, her horse placidly plodding a few paces ahead, turns to them expectantly.

“You may stop by your mother’s fire to say goodnight,” Anya concedes, “but be quick. We have time for one more lesson before sleep.” The girl flashes back a happy smile, spurs her mount and peels off, disappearing between two houses.

When they stop, Clarke notices that Anya lives at the edge of the village. Her hut is no different than anyone else's, and set a bit apart from the others. She would have thought a leader should be the most protected, but this place feels solitary, and exposed.

She doesn’t realize she has spoken aloud, until the words are out of her mouth and even in the darkness, she sees the woman’s gaze meet hers as she dismounts.

“I am the first line of defense,” Anya explains, “I will give the alarm, should enemies come from this side, or stop them long enough for my warriors to strike back,” Her arms encircle Clarke’s waist and she helps her off the saddle carefully.

“Come,” she adds, settling her on the ground, “the hour grows late and I am hungry.”

Clarke grunts as she sets muscles rigid from long hours spent on horseback into motion. Before she can take a step, a shadow, darker than the night detaches from the side of the hut, and she gasps.

“Hosa,” Anya greets without looking.

“ _Amin,”_ a spark banishes the night for a moment, and robs Clarke of her night vision. When she can see again, the speaker, a man, is hanging a lamp outside Anya’s door. In the flickering light his eyes examine her critically, then he looks at the warrior and raises a questioning eyebrow.

“You have found yourself a stray? Because there isn’t nearly enough meat to eat on her bones,” she realizes he is speaking English deliberately, and glares at him over Anya’s shoulder, while a sizeable part of her hopes he is joking about the eating bit. The woman throws her head back with an amused laugh.

The man feels Clarke’s heated gaze and winks back with a dry chuckle. Anya hands him the reins and he starts leading their mount away.

“The coals are hot, and water should still be warm enough to wash,” he calls over his shoulder, “either give her a bath or chain your pet outside. She _smells_.”

Clarke is suddenly glad for the near dark, as it helps her hide the sudden blush. She supposes he is right about the stench, and she smarts about the _pet_ part. Yet in part, that feels accurate too, Anya has used a rope to tug her where she wished her to go, employed her as bait in the hunt, and gave her the praise you reserve to a loyal hound when it performs well.

She thinks with a touch of bitterness, that maybe she is no more than a pet right now, and sets her shoulders with determination. She will show this woman and Tris and every last one of these people she is far from weak. She recalls the moment by the water, when Anya cleaned her face and complimented her, the way she felt pride stir inside, and realizes no small part of her felt like she belonged, like there was some meaningful task for her to perform. She craves that feeling with every fiber of her being. Above all, she wants Anya to look upon her as an equal, with the same fondness and respect she sees in the woman’s eyes when they linger on her people.

The warrior grasps her by her bound wrists and helps her navigate the few steps to the door. As she shambles forward, Clarke is struck by how tired she is, how much her wound hurts. It is a struggle to stay on her feet, yet she clenches her back muscles and moves forward. She knows if she collapses Anya will carry her, but she will crawl to the hut if she has to, rather than dishonor herself so.

Anya patiently walks with her, as if she understands the struggle Clarke is going through. She tries to read the woman's face in the scarce light, but the warrior's eyes are blank and she stares straight ahead as if looking at her and acknowledging her pain would shame her. Her captor and by extension her people seem to favor silence and small gestures instead of words. Clarke again is drawn to the stark difference between Anya and those she has known all her life.

On the Ark silence is taken as an embarrassment, an empty, awkward space to be filled with meaningless chatter. Here on the ground every word is spent after careful consideration and Clarke believes she will learn more about these people by keeping her mouth shut, and watching closely. She suddenly feels like the exchange of a few moments before was entirely for her benefit.

Inside, Anya guides her to a stool without a word, then moves about the house, using the coals to get them some light and warmth. Clarke gaze moves around, as she tries to take in every detail all at once, hoping it will tell her more about the warrior leader. Everything is simple and functional, the wooden surfaces polished, the few objects she spots, worn with use. She recognizes parts of other salvaged buildings, put together to form the walls, woven in with wood from the forest in a seamless architecture she finds she would jot down on a sketchbook if she had one.

Anya comes to her and with economical motions cuts her restraints. The rope falls away, and the skin underneath is reddened and chafed. She wants to scratch it and massage some blood back into her hands, but she resist the urge, biting the inside of her cheek. She had never thought before that acknowledging some discomfort meant being weak, but fears these people might. She wonders if she will be able to keep her vow, or if the ground will kill her in a more subtle way than direct impact.

She looks at the rope on the floor, then the open door and the quiet woods beyond and Anya follows her gaze, and shrugs. She can go if she wishes, the subtle movement is telling her, and she feels like laughing bitterly. None of the Earth Skills classes have remotely prepared her for the real thing. If she goes out there alone again she will die. Perhaps the scarred warriors will find her, and Clarke does not believe they will be like Anya and her tribe at all. She meets the woman’s dark eyes and gives a tiny shake of her head. Anya’s gaze remains steady on hers, but she thinks she see her mouth curve slightly upwards for a moment. Or perhaps it is her fancy, or a trick of the flame’s dancing light.

Anya pulls her to her feet, and leads her to a back room, separated from the rest of the hut by a simple curtain. She carries a candle with them, and Clarke realizes this is where she sleeps. The bed is a beauty of carved wood, and the artist inside her aches to run fingers along the delicate carvings. Pelts have been thrown on the floor for insulation and in a shadowy corner of the room she spots a wooden basin on a raised stone platform. Anya sets the candle down onto a simple table and crouches in front of a locker at the foot of the bed, digging through it, but Clarke isn’t paying much attention to her, as the candle’s light has revealed the basin is full to the brim with water and she feels every part of her that is covered in grime, blood and sweat itch at the same time, almost painfully. She steps forward mesmerized and dips a finger in the water. It’s warm and she figures it must be possible to place a heat source under the platform to make it so.

Anya clears her throat behind her, and she retracts her hand, cheeks burning.

“Wash,” the woman orders curtly, “Hosa _does_ have a point.” She turns, and marches to the door, but not before Clarke sees a bemused smile touch her lips. She is _not_ imagining it this time.

The curtain flutters shut behind Anya, but her voice comes through easily. “I’ll be right outside if you need anything.” Amusement lines every word with a warmth that takes Clarke by surprise. She doesn’t find Anya’s mirth at her expense offensive. If anything she feels herself relax a bit more, and warm more towards this seemingly distant woman. There is some other emotion fluttering briefly, bur strongly through her, yet she fails to identify it and stores the thought away for a later time.

With a relieved sigh, she slowly gets out of the sorry rags practically plastered to her skin and drops them in a heap on the floor. She looks down at her shivering limbs for the first time in what seems like an age, noticing how her ribs push against her skin more than they used to while frowning at the mess of hair between her legs and down further. She turns to the bed, spotting a bundle of fresh clothes Anya must have set out for her while she was distracted, and on top of the table she sees small bar of soap and the dull gleam of a straight razor.

She smirks to herself. She must have forgotten for an instant that Anya is a woman too, and has probably spent so much time campaigning far from her home to know exactly how disgusting Clarke feels.

A piece of clean linen sits on the edge of the tub and Clarke dips it in the water and lathers it up with soap before wiping herself down. The temptation to just lower herself to her ears in clean water is so strong, it makes her shake, but she knows it is best to get rid of most of the dirt coating her skin first or she will cloud the water up and not be clean at all.

She starts from the bottom up, also shaving herself as the grime falls away from her flesh. A tiny sound of pleasure escapes her throat at the cold scrape of sharp metal against skin. Her wound she treats with care, picking up the candle and putting the flame so close to herself she feels its heat, to check inside for any speck of dust that could cause an infection. The cut bleeds only slightly when she pulls the sides apart, and it looks like Anya’s salve has worked wonders. She will ask her for more, and treat the cut for a few more days, just to be safe.

When it’s time to pass the cloth across her chest, she stops abruptly and almost drops it, her hands now shaking for an entirely different reason. Her senses are battered by the memory of the blood’s stickiness, as it sprayed everywhere on her, bathing her, pulling her into the death she caused with its intimacy. The whiff of breeze coming in through the door suddenly turns to the man’s last breath on her cheek, into her mouth.

Clarke throws the rag down almost violently and splashes inside the tub, suffocating a whimper. She lowers herself in the water with a hiss, since, to her cool skin, the liquid feels almost scalding, and lets its surface close on the top of her head for a few brief instants, submerging herself completely.

Eyes tightly shut, she draws into herself, the only sounds the gentle sloshing of water in her ears and the hammering of her heart in her chest. She stays under until her lungs burn and red stains the blackness in front of her eyes, then she pushes upwards with a gasp. Gradually, the heat seeps into her very core, and she tilts her head back, resting it against the edge of the basin, eyelids dragged down by wariness.

Anya’s voice floats to her, but she does not care to listen in to the words, assuming Tris has returned and the woman is using the time alone with her to teach. A pang of irrational jealously fleetingly rushes through her, and she chalks it up to her endless thirst for knowledge, that drove her to pester her mother and Jackson with questions, and sleepless nights of study.

She always thought she wanted to be a doctor because of the pride she saw in Abby’s eyes whenever she learned a new procedure. For the first time she is grateful she stuck with it, even when it seemed an impossible task, because it may save her life and make her valuable to these people.

She struggles to keep her eyes open and her thoughts become sluggish and muddled, as muscles knotted by tension and hurt, finally relax.

“She is so soft that maybe she drowned in there,” Tris voice echoes in the quiet, tinged with sarcasm and no small dose of contempt. Clarke hears the screech of a stool scraped backwards, then footsteps rapidly approach, and the curtain is drawn to one side, as Anya steps into the room, concern cracking her mask of aloofness.

Clarke bolts upright, sloshing water to the floor, eyes widening as far as they can go, then freezes, body glistening with droplets of water, naked and burning with embarrassment. She catches a glimpse of Tris’ entertained smirk, before Anya lets go of the cloth, hiding her from view,.

She is keenly aware of the woman’s dark eyes on her, almost like a touch, and she sees a flash of something, appreciation perhaps, brighten them for an instant. The sudden tingling that chases away the heat from her cheeks isn’t at all unpleasant.

“So there _is_ a girl under all that grime,” Anya breaks the spell, finally averting her gaze, and picks a towel from the bed, offering it to her, “I was starting to doubt.”

Clarke wraps it around herself gratefully, and trembles. Night has fallen completely and the temperature in the room has dropped further than she realized while in the water.

“How’s your leg?”

Anya sits on the bed, watching her and Clarke notices a subtle clench of the jaw, and lines of worry appearing briefly around the woman’s eyes.

“Better,” she reassures her, realizing at the same time she has not thanked her properly for anything really, and feeling ashamed at the oversight. “You saved my life."

Anya is shaking her head, even before she has stopped speaking. “You saved yourself. I merely lent a hand.”

Clarke does not know how to reply, so she chews on her lip, looking from the heap of clothes waiting for her, to the woman that seemingly has no intention of leaving her alone to change. She resolves to adapt to the situation and with a sigh she folds the towel to the side and, without checking if Anya is staring, begins to dress. The undergarments are very similar to what she is used to, and she feels a bit less exposed after donning them, When she risks a quick glance in Anya’s direction, the woman’s eyes are planted firmly ahead, and Clarke is suddenly grateful for the company, as some of the dark thoughts that rocked her when she was washing, threaten to surface.

The solitude of the time she spent alone on the ground, stabs her all the more sharply by contrast. She had never been truly alone on the Ark, some form of human interaction always within reach, and only now it becomes apparent how everything since she came down had seemed way more bleak and desperate because she had been facing it completely alone.

There are bandages for her leg next to the clothes, and a small jar of the same unguent Anya used on her before. She sits next to her, and deftly applies some salve on the cut, feeling immediate relief, before she covers it with tightly bound linen. When she reaches for the pants, she meets the woman’s gaze and again feels a tightening in the pit of her stomach.

“Where did you learn?” Anya asks as she pulls the pants on. They are tighter than what she is used to, but feel comfortable and warm. A shirt follows, a bit loose around the shoulders, as they are of the same build, but Anya is obviously a bit more muscular due to constant training, then socks, and soft leather boots that lace up to mid-calf.

“My mother was training me,” Clarke whispers, the grief for Abby's loss engulfing her anew. She knows that wound will be much longer in closing than the one on her thigh. Her eyes travel upward involuntarily, as if she could see through the roof, all the way up to the Ark.

Anya does not probe further, reaching out instead to brush wet strands of hair away from her brow.

“Clarke. _Kom skai._ ”

The sense of the words is clear and she shakes her head, in vehement denial, blazing anger at the people that ordered her family to death for daring to believe there was more to life than just survival, devouring every other thought.

“No,” her voice is a low growl, and she takes a deep breath to calm herself, “I do not know what I am now, but I am _kom skai,_ ” she falters on the unfamiliar words, “no longer.” Renouncing her people should make her heart bleed with sorrow, yet it feels like taking this step is the only way to stop her soul from slowly draining out of her. The Ark is distant and cold, like the furthest star, the blood ties severed, and its fate no longer her own.

Anya stands, motioning her to do the same.

“As I said, I offer you my home,” she looks at her for so long that Clarke feels like she can see right into her soul, then adds almost timidly, “one day perhaps, you can be Clarke _kom Trikru_. For now, let's eat. You must be starving.”

The rumble of Clarke's empty stomach is answer enough.

 

* * *

 

 

Anya watches closely as the girl takes a seat in front of her, on the low stool. She can tell the wound makes her leg stiff and awkward, but there are no complains, merely a grimace when she lowers herself down.

“Tris, _badan dina op_.” she points at the empty bowls, stored on a shelf.

The girl stares back with resentment. “Why?” she thrusts her chin at Clarke, “she should be the one serving us!”

Anya does not raise her voice, she does not need to, yet she lets displeasure darken her eyes to the flint-like, unflinching stare her ward knows so well, and she sees her squirm. A backbone is a good thing, but she will not tolerate insolence, especially from one who should know better.

“Tonight's lesson,” her eyes move from a girl to the other, including them both, “a leader is a servant to her people. How can you claim to lead, if you do not know how to serve? You think Clarke is _kwelen_ , so you believe serving her will shame you. Protecting is nothing more than serving.” She falls silent, waiting, and the crackling of the fire is the only sound for a while.

When finally someone stands up, it is not Tris. Anya does not stop Clarke as she reaches for the iron pot her second brought back from her mother, and when the girl uncovers it, the smell of stew fills the room.

Her _stray_ , as Hosa called her, fills the bowls, and she hands one first to her, then to the sullen girl that is glaring daggers at her, and finally takes the last for herself. She naturally asserts the proper rank and in doing so acknowledges her own status.

It seems that, perhaps unconsciously, she knows that admitting weakness is the only way to strengthen oneself, something Tris still has to fully comprehend. Maybe an older student is not such a bad thing after all, if unprecedented, Anya muses.

“At least one of you is in the right disposition to learn tonight,” Tris lowers her gaze, and says nothing, playing with her food for a while before giving in to hunger and eating. There is not much even Anya can do, when the girl refuses to heed her teachings. Soon she will move to higher things, and be forced to learn or die, and if the latter comes to pass she will have wasted time.

They finish their meal in silence, then she gathers the bowls and sends her ward to the stream to wash them up. This time, smarting from her reprimand, Tris obeys without question. On the morrow she will lay snares, and send her back to her mother with some meat, in thanks.

When they are alone, she leaves Clarke for a moment, and goes back into the bedroom, to recover her old clothes. The girl does not move, as she passes by, the dwindling flames reflected in her sapphire eyes, mind a thousand miles away.

Anya finds it hard to look at those eyes at times, feelings she thought long suppressed coming to the fore. She has been empty for so long, aching and cold. Her days are burdened by duty, with never a moment to lean on someone that sees past the leader, her nights are often sleepless, filled with worry she cannot confide to anyone.

Her bed is desolate and icy, even in the heat of summer. The seasons pass her by, and wounds she hoped would close, fester. Regan was a lot of things to her, above all the one she allowed close, her safe port when life was too stormy to navigate alone. She tells herself, as she has been telling herself, since she saw the girl spill her first blood, she took her for the clan, and not to fill her own echoing spaces. That is the reason she never stopped training after Lexa, as everyone expected her to. After all who could ever replace a second such as the Commander?

The hope she feels, a glowing beacon she thought lost to her, is not only brought about by the plans she has for Clarke. She cannot deny she sees much of him in the sky girl, and it has influenced her choices. She prays not to be wrong on all accounts. Perhaps one day Clark will belong to _Trikru_ and they will help each other heal, but she is broken too, her trust a fragile thing, and she must be handled with care. For the clan's sake firstly, and her own, she admits with a touch of selfishness.

She has offered the girl a home in earnest, but the rest of her people will have to accept her and she cannot, _will not_ order them to. Much depends on the girl herself, maybe everything.

She comes back, and Clarke is how she left her, blue gaze darkened to almost black in the waning light.

“Come.” She steps outside, and the girl follows, questions etched on her face. They walk a bit behind the hut, almost to the edge of the woods. Anya feels the familiarity of the forest on her skin, in her blood. She is embedded to this land with ties as gnarled and old as the expansive roots of the trees towering around them, but Clarke is still suspended between the sky and the earth. She needs an action that will seed her soul firmly to the destination of her journey, or the strings tying her both to the here and now and her life far above will pull at her more and more, until she tears apart.

Anya stops. There is almost no light, and Clarke has followed her by sound alone as she found her way by the memories engraved on her bones. She settles her burden down, and with quick hands and a few strikes of a flint she start a small fire, she had set up while the girl was bathing.

Clarke turns her head for a moment, eyes watering with tears at the sudden glare, and when her sight has adjusted Anya hands her the clothes.

“Burn them.” She is not giving her an order now, but rather offering a form of closure.

The girl's fingers trace the torn fabric, almost lovingly and linger, quivering, on the dried bloodstains, before her face hardens and she throws the garments into the flame. The fire picks up at being fed so generously, and consumes the clothes with avid abandon. Tongues of yellow and orange and deeper reds, dance on their surface at first, then blacken them until they disappear from view and the heat on Anya's cheeks grows to that of an open furnace.

The path of the girl's fingers has not gone unnoticed and the warrior takes a step closer, quietly offering what support she will accept. Head bowed, Clarke does not look at her and in the end she feels she has to break the silence.

 

* * *

 

 

“What you did bothers you.” The statement drags her away from morbid images, and Clarke raises her head but remains quiet, unable to put what she feels into words.

A brush of knuckles against the back of her hand follows, yet it feels like Anya has pulled her tightly close.

“We will talk of it, when you are ready,” is all the woman whispers. She nods again in reply and together they watch as the roaring fire turns the last scraps of her old clothes, and her past life, to ashes.

Later she is laying in the dark, on pelts laid down at the feet of the woman's bed, an odd sense of peace making it hard to move at all. She feels like she does not deserve it, as events are catching up to her, and the extent of what she had done, in contrast to all she has been taught, is starkly revealed to her aching mind.

Still the pain is dulled for a while at least, and finally tiredness pushes every other thought aside roughly and settles into her limbs.

As her eyes give in and close, Anya's voice guides her to slumber.

“Sleep well and wake, Clarke.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRANSLATIONS  
> Amin: mistress  
> Badan dina op: serve the food  
> Kwelen: weak


	7. Granplei/ Surprises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clarke's tutelage under Anya begins, and she is given some objects from the warrior's past. 
> 
> Meanwhile on the Ark, Diana's web of intrigue deepens, and Raven is digging for truth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all!
> 
> Sorry this update is a bit late, life is pretty busy at the moment. Thank you all for taking the time to read my work, leaving kudos and comments, They greatly help me improve my writing, so any suggestion/criticism is welcome!
> 
> A word of warning- this is the last "quiet" chapter- things will start falling apart real fast, real soon. Enjoy!

“ _In return, he guarded the god's property, defended his body, worked for him, and obeyed him_.”

Jack London - _White Fang_

 

The feeling of Anya’s foot, tapping against her ribs, is starting to become familiar. Clarke’s eyes shoot open and she looks up at the warrior standing over her, half dressed, hair tousled by sleep.

“I know, I know,” she grumbles, sitting up, as Anya’s mouth opens, “ _gyon op._ ”

The woman grunts, and moves away. Clarke stands, finding that the night spent on the floor has not knotted her muscles as she thought it would. Feeble light comes from a window, half covered in emerald green vines. Judging by its strength, he sun has not even risen yet. Still, she feels rested, and is thankful for the deep exhaustion that dragged her under, erasing any chance of dreams. When she approaches the older woman, she moves aside, allowing her space in front of a basin in which she has splashed icy water just before.

Clarke wipes the last cobwebs of sleep from the corners of her eyes, then rinses her face, shivering slightly at the iciness of the liquid. As she steals a look at Anya, she notices a series of notches cut into her side, along her ribs. The warrior moves, and the half unbuttoned shirt she is wearing, hides the scarring, but Clarke’s glance has not gone unnoticed.

“There is one for every life I have taken in battle,” she explains, eyes glued to Clarke’s, then she hesitates, “you have the right to one too.”

Scarlet blood on her hands, warm and sticky. Clarke wraps her arms around herself with a shiver and takes an involuntary step back. “I do not know if I want such a reminder.”

Anya doesn’t press her, for which she is grateful and they finish dressing in silence. She is taken aback when the warrior presents her with a leather coat, much like the one she is wearing, reinforced with mail on the forearms and shoulders.

“I will start training you today,” Anya says simply, as she helps her fasten buckles, and tightens unseen straps to make the garment fit like a second skin. From her tone it is clear she does not expect Clarke to argue, and the girl is conscious that as long as she cannot defend herself, she is a liability.

“There.” The woman makes her turn to face her and admires her work, giving a satisfied nod. “It suits you.”

Clarke rolls her shoulders, surprised that the armor does not feel wrong on her, or too heavy, It is tight in places and chafes a little in others, but she assumes she will get used to it, the more she wears it. Judging from Anya’s determined look as she leads her outside, she will do that a lot.

When they emerge from the hut, they find Hosa leaning against a wall, talking amiably with Tris. He straightens as they appear and the girl gives Clarke a heated look. She does not understand the animosity and resists the urge to just glare back defensively. Clarke tells herself that perhaps Trist is not as ready to trust as Anya seems to be.

“She looks much better after a bath,” Hosa grins at Clarke, who rolls her eyes with the only result of making him laugh aloud.

Anya sighs. “If you intend to help Hosa, then do so and stop wasting time.” She turns a steely gaze on the two girls. “Three laps of the village,” she orders, “we will meet you at the training grounds,” her eyes linger on Clarke, “Tris will show you the way.”

The younger girl springs into motion immediately, sparing one look in Clarke’s direction.

“Try to keep up.” A hiss from a mouth twisted into a mocking grin. Clarke’s annoyance grows and she runs after the kid, steeling herself for the first of many trials. The village is still mostly empty and the few people around barely look in their direction, as if everything is part of a familiar routine. At first, Clarke thinks to herself with no small amount of satisfaction, it is not too hard to keep up. As they run, she sees Anya and Hosa square off into an empty field behind some houses, and is surprised to see they are practicing with sharp steel, where she was expecting blunted weapons or wooden practice ones. She stumbles and curses, and forces her gaze away from them, focusing back on the path in front of her feet.

The air, still pervaded by the night’s chill, starts burning inside her lungs as beads of sweat roll down her brow and sting her eyes. The distance between her and Tris grows, and she sees the girl glance back every so often, smirking at her trouble.

The wound on her thigh throbs with each step, adding an inelegant gait to her stride, but she pushes on, knowing that her life depends on learning as much as she can from these people. There is a savagery to their ways that she cannot bring herself to call cruelty. They are harsh, not because they find enjoyment in it, but because circumstances forced them to become iron hard. She is sure none of those that meet her eyes as she ambles past, breath ragged and pained, is soft, and she tries to take strength from the few, that seeing her difficulty still nod in encouragement, watching as she drives herself forward relentlessly.

Her three laps seem to last an eternity and by the time she is done, and joins the others at the training grounds, the armor she didn’t judge so heavy, feels like a mountain on her back.

Tris and Anya are sparring already and Hosa calls her over with a wave of the hand. He walks with her to a weapons’ rack, and gestures to the wooden practice ones she was wondering about.

“Pick,” he encourages, all playfulness gone, but voice kind, ”whichever feels more natural.”

She cannot help, but think of the fact Tris is using steel weapons too and he sees the thought form in her clear blue eyes.

“You have to learn to walk before you run,” his grin is back in place, “although you did not do too badly with running today.” Clarke cannot help but smile at that, then her mind refocuses to the task at hand. She lets her hand wander over the practice weapons, brushing fingers against some, hefting others, before she settles on a wooden sword, a palm or so longer than the rest.

“A good choice,” he takes the sword from her and holds it, first with one hand then two, “quick, yet powerful.” He swings a few times to demonstrate, then picks another for himself, “come, let’s see your stance.”

They move to an empty space parallel with Anya and Tris, but not close enough to hinder each other’s training. The two women come apart after a flurry of blows of such precision to leave Clarke breathless and pause for a moment, watching them.

She stares at Hosa unsure what is expected, then when she sees him ready himself she copies his stance. The sword is heavier than she imagined for her to hold one-handed, so she shifts her hand higher and adds the other. It feels more natural this way.

“Your feet a bit wider,” he instructs, then his body tenses and that is all the warning she gets before he comes at her, sword whistling towards her head. Clarke lifts her arms up in a desperate parry, that sends her reeling, the impact’s vibration running up her arms. And that’s the way it goes, with her averting what blows she can, dodging a few and being mercilessly beaten around the yard for the rest of the time.

It all ends when a particularly nasty cut gets below her crumbling guard and strikes right across the healing cut on her thigh. Her leg gives way and she finds herself on the ground, staring up at a sky the same color of her eyes and trying to fight back the urge to vomit.

“Break!” Anya’s voice whips across the training grounds and the clang of practice ceases around Clarke. She struggles to a sitting position to find Hosa crouching next to her, hand outstretched, about to pull her up. She shakes her head and pushes upright on her own, earning a nod from the man. Looking around, Clarke is glad he is not as muscle-bound as the majority of the warriors practicing. Yet from her experience his wiry frame only _looks_ deceivingly frail, the bruises she will sport soon a testament to his quiet strength.

He isn’t as young as Clarke, not old either, the tanned, leathery quality of his skin making it hard to assign him an age. Clean shaven, with no tattoos that she can see, he almost looks as out of place as she feels.

Together they walk to a water barrel, placed to the side of the yard, and he dips an empty cup in the cool liquid, handing it to her. Clarke tilts her head back, draining the liquid in no time, then Anya’s voice calling her back to practice turns the water’s sweetness into ash.

 

* * *

 

The bluish flame of the blowtorch makes Raven's eyes tear up, even behind the welder's mask. She shuts it off with an irritated sigh and peels a glove off to rub at her face. Her neck is tight, her shoulders sore, but the knowledge her shift will be over soon does not bring her any comfort.

She has come to dread her bed and working herself to the edge of exhaustion and beyond does not stop the nightmares. She should talk to someone maybe, but she is sure Abby is being watched and she cannot bring herself to go back to Finn.

She has not been to see him since she practically fled the visitations’ room. She is afraid to go back there, scared he will start asking questions that will make her crumble. She is not sure he would understand what she did. She  _is_ sure he would not approve.

A hand landing heavily on her shoulder makes her jump and almost drop her tools. She turns with a curse on her lips. She will rip Wick a new one this time around. Barbed words die in her throat as she sees Sinclair looming over her.

“Boss.” She manages weakly.

He gives an apologetic shrug. “Sorry to startle you like that Reyes,” he moves a stack of spare parts off a nearby bench and lets himself drop down on it with a groan, “you look…” He trails off, as if realizing what he is about to say is rude and shrugs again.

Raven knows exactly how she looks.

“Like shit,” she finishes for him. She laughs, a short hard bark. Sinclair’s eyes grow worried and he reaches out to pat her shoulder.

“Are you getting enough sleep?”

“The usual.” She would die before admitting it to him, but his fatherly approach always warms her heart. Since the day he overrode her medical evaluation so she could operate in Zero-G he has been watching out for her like the father she has never known. Raven doesn’t really understand why he took such a shine to her, but it fills an aching void inside her not even Finn could ever heal.

Raven sees on the man’s face that he knows she isn’t going to say more and when he talks, he changes topic as she expects him to.

“I hate to ask this of you Reyes,” he puts a hand in his jacket’s pocket and takes out what she recognizes as memory coils, “Kane came by,” at the mention of the Councilman she tries not to stiffen, “and asked me to recover the data on these.”

He drops her on her worktable pushing them towards her, and she immediately understands what he wants to ask.

“I’ll do it,” a sinking feeling grabs a hold of her stomach; she has seen similar chips when doing routine maintenance of the launch bays’ computers. There is only one reason she can think of that would make Kane take a sudden interest. She frowns suddenly.

“If he asked for you specifically…”

Sinclair laughs, getting up. He looks tired too.

“Don’t worry. I’ll be the one to tell him what you find, “ he stretches and little dry pops come from his shoulders and back, “take the day off tomorrow and figure this out. And rest,” he pats her shoulder again, squeezing briefly as worry creases his features anew, “I need my best mechanic to be in top shape.”

After he leaves, she wonders at his last words. There was an air about him then, like he wanted to say more and her restless mind runs through the last couple of days again. She knows there has been a Council after Abby was released, because Sinclair grumbled for hours about being pulled away without notice. Then he started giving her more and more work, a series of assignments that don’t make a lick of sense coupled together. Almost like.

_Almost like he was splitting a bigger project across different teams._

Raven pockets the chips and busies herself with restoring some order to the chaos of her workspace, hoping it will help piece together the whirlwind of thoughts sweeping her mind. Afterwards, she makes her way to her quarters, the usual dread that goes through her as sleep approaches forgotten. There is one person that can tell her precisely what’s going on and if her suspicions about the memory spools turns out to be true, she has the right kind of  _leverage_ to get answers.

 

* * *

 

Anya exchanges her sword for a wooden one as Clarke steps up warily in front of her. Everything about the child tells her how tired and sore she must be, yet she sees her grit her teeth and assume a guard position, much the same way Hosa instructed. The warrior schools her features, but cannot help the satisfaction she feels inside from showing through her eyes for a moment. Clarke is displaying the same determination she showed against the wolf and Azgeda, and she is glad it was not just a momentary strength brought about by the need for survival.

She brings her sword up, lunging immediately at the girl, which sidesteps and almost trips over her feet. Still, she is quick and when her wound will be healed completely, training will become easier.

Clarke takes the initiative for the first time that day and probes Anya’s guard, switching instinctively to a one handed hold on the sword’s hilt in order to thrust. It’s sloppy and slow, and the warrior raps her knuckles hard for her troubles, but it is a start. Now she needs to stoke the embers of the girl’s fire until it is raging and then she will see what kind of warrior she can be trained into, if she can be taught at all.

Changing pace suddenly, Anya becomes a whirlwind of motion, relentlessly charging into Clarke’s guard until she shatters it and the girl falls backward, sword flying to the hard packed dirt, body sprawled. As she tries to struggle back up, Anya lays into her, sword striking an arm, her ribs and her knee in rapid succession.

“If this is all you can do, don’t bother getting up.” She sneers, letting the same contempt Tris has been displaying, settle on her features. Clarke stares at her, panting and wild eyed, then her eyes harden to chips of blue ice and she flings herself at the sword, surging upwards with a cry and what must be the last of her strength.

The girl rushes blindly into her, rage blatantly worn like armor and Anya parries and strikes, but the hits seem to land on dead flesh as the girl presses her backwards until finally she manages to score a mark of her own across Anya’s ribs that has the warrior hiss in pain.

She taps the flat of her own weapon against the side of the girl’s neck and Clarke freezes, crestfallen.

Clarke steps back, looking downwards, but before she is out of her reach, Anya brushes her free hand against her forearm and when their eyes meet she lets a small smile play at the corners of her lips.

“Tomorrow we will practice again,” she has no praise to give, but the fact she isn’t giving up on Clarke seems to hearten the girl. Tris and Hosa join them and together they walk back to the village.

“Hosa, take Tris hunting with you,” Anya orders, “I need to show some things to Clarke.” The jealous look Tris shoots to the blonde’s back could light fires, but Anya says nothing. The two of them will sort it out, or not. Clarke seems unperturbed, or perhaps is just too tired to care.

She follows Anya silently back to her house and when they enter, she just stands, shoulders slumped, breath still slightly ragged. The warrior plucks a box from one of the shelves lining the wall and sets it on the table. Her fingers trace the delicate carvings and she remembers gifting it to Regan when he became the village healer.

She pushes it gently towards Clarke. It’s big and it feels heavier than it is, burdened with the weight of her sorrow.

“Open it.”

Clarke steps forward hesitantly, and much like she did, traces the design carved in the lid of the box. The swirls and wavy lines are akin to pristine water lapping shores. Anya knows this because the Boat People’s merchant she bought it from, using much of her first raid’s earnings, told her so.

When the girl flips the heavy lid she gasps, eyes widening slightly and alight with interest. Her hands hover above its contents, and she glances up at Anya, biting her lip.

“Go ahead,” the warrior pulls a stool to herself and sits down, watching Clarke intently.

She lifts the contents of the box out slowly, almost reverently. Surgical instruments, dull with dust but still sharp, sheaves of cream-colored paper and charcoals, and finally two leather bound books. One in particular sends pangs of sadness into Anya's very core. Regan's personal journal. He would always be drawing the wildlife and plants and the parts of the human body he got to study under his mentor. That journal had been his most treasured possession. The other is a printed book, salvaged in one of the ruins where only the spirits of the dead now lived. A book of medicine, which Anya can read, she has learned like any other warrior, but that makes very little sense to her.

Clarke opens the yellowed pages carefully, stark disbelief etched on her face.

“I studied on this same book,” she murmurs, “my mother,” she halts to swallow, “she gave it to me when I became old enough to help her with the sick.”

Anya doesn't say anything, feeling that questions would make the girl close up to her. It is obvious that her past causes her pain, and while she does want to know more about what it must be like, to live among the stars, she waits for Clarke to come to her of her own accord.

“Everything is yours now,” she stands, averting her gaze as the memory of Regan threatens to overwhelm her. They are similar in this. She will tell the girl when she will inevitably ask, but not now. Seeing those objects after so much time has dismantled her more than she thought it would.

She walks to the door briskly, stopping Clarke with a look when the girl goes to follow.

“Rest. Study if you wish. I will be back before nightfall.” As she gives one last glance backwards, she notices the girl is looking down at the box entranced, the first real smile since they found her, playing on her lips.

 

* * *

 

Space comes as a commodity on the Ark, yet there are parts of the stations, maintenance shafts and remote storage rooms that are seldom visited, where the only light is a tenuous emergency strip or the blink of machinery long forgotten.

She waits in one such space for her inside man to show up. It is dangerous, meeting in person, with Kane sniffing around like a hunting dog after that rogue drop-pod launch, but using the communication system could be too, even more so.

After all, if her people can have her listen in to some of the Councilors, she has to assume the reverse to be also true. Yet in this place she feels adequately safe. Factory Station is her own home, and nobody would dare question her whereabouts. People here still remember when she sat in Jaha’s place. Footsteps bounce against the walls and he appears, the Guard uniform eschewed for a worker outfit.

“Shumway. You are late.” If her voice had more edge, he would be bleeding. The man winces as his name vibrates around the small space. Very few things scare Commander Shumway, but she knows she is one of them.

“Well?”

“You were right,” he answers, straightening his back and trying to regain some composure, ”Kane gave the order to quarantine the whole Sky Box starting at dawn. The Guard preparing to close off that section as we speak.”

Diana taps her fingers to her lips, deep in thought. She doesn’t know everything, but a word has been mentioned numerous times by the people she has been eavesdropping on. When she researched its meaning, it gave her pause.

She needs to be involved somehow, telling herself it is for the good of her people, knowing it is a lie even as it forms into her mind.

Her eyes narrow. With Griffin somehow freed, after everything hinted she would be floated, there is only one viable option, one obstacle standing between her and her rightful seat. Kane does not worry her, he is the only one that could scrape up enough votes, but he is not well liked.

“Find me a likely candidate,” she orders, “we move forward with phase two.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRANSLATIONS
> 
> granplei; training


End file.
